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DONALD KIRK, 

THE MORNING RECORD COPY -BOY 
















































































































































































































He was toiling like a man in desperate straits for his life. 
Frontispiece. See page 253. 



allfp imtalJi iKtrk g>eraa 


DONALD KIRK, 

THE MORNING RECORD 
COPY - BOY 


BY 

EDWARD MOTT WOOLLEY 

ti 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 

GEORGE VARIAN 


BOSTON 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
1912 


V 



Copyright , 1912, 

By Little, Brown, and Company. 
All rights reserved 


Published, September, 1912 



E lectr otyp ed and Printed by 
THE COLONIAL PRESS 
C. H. Simonds & Co Boston , U. S. A. 


I i V# 

€CI.A320722 

V \ 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. 

An Out of Town Assignment 




PAGE 

1 

II. 

To Catch the Last Edition 




18 

III. 

A Race with Time 




31 

IV. 

A Conspiracy Planned 




42 

V. 

Chasing a Diplomat 




53 

VI. 

The Man - of - War 




62 

VII. 

Forgetting Duff . 




79 

VIII. 

A New Enemy .... 




89 

IX. 

Suspicions 




100 

X. 

An Old Acquaintance . 




111 

XI. 

The Lure 




122 

XII. 

The Lost Story 




134 

XIII. 

Fast Time 




148 

XIV. 

Deep Laid Preparations 




157 

XV. 

A Speedy Automobile . 




165 

XVI. 

Duff as a Watchdog . 




175 

XVII. 

A Mysterious Letter . 




190 

XVIII. 

The Telegraph Room . 




201 

XIX. 

The Stolen News . 




208 

XX. 

In Despair .... 




217 

XXI. 

Felix and Duff Again 




226 

XXII. 

New Work .... 




234 

XXIII. 

The Flight of the Special 




249 

XXIV. 

In the Flood .... 




257 

XXV. 

For the Last Edition . 




267 



ILLUSTRATIONS 


He was toiling like a man in desperate 

straits for his life .... Frontispiece ^ 

When he heard the fast click of the key, he 

lay back again Page 39 w 

A FIST SHOT OUT WITH THE STRENGTH OF A PUGI- 
LIST “ 97 

Ordway caught Duff by the shoulders and 

WHIRLED HIM AROUND LIKE A TOP . . “ 186 




































































Donald Kirk, The Morning 
Record Copy -Boy 

CHAPTER i 

AN OUT OF TOWN ASSIGNMENT 

rilHE city editor’s call-signal buzzed sharply. 

Chapin, evidently, was in a hurry. When 
time pressed heavily, as it often did at the Record 
office, the harsh, prolonged note of the buzzer 
proclaimed the fact unmistakably. 

The copy-boys’ bench in the city room, just 
outside the den of the local chief, chanced at the 
moment to have only one occupant, a dark-com- 
plexioned, comely boy of fifteen. He was never 
slow about answering a call from the city editor, 
and now, taking his cue from the tone of the 
buzzer, he sprang instantly to his superior’s desk. 

Mr. Chapin was alone. A green-shaded elec- 
tric light hung over him and cast its full radiance 
upon a head that was snow white. Chapin was 
scarcely thirty-five, despite his hair, and despite 


2 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


the network of crows’-tracks about his keen, 
cold, gray eyes. The stress of the news battle 
had left its marks, and there were times when 
Chapin seemed bent and old. Yet, withal, he 
still held the tautest reins of any newspaper 
editor in New York, and the men who worked for 
him respected him for his justice and admired 
him for the daring exploits of which he was past 
master. 

“ Where’s Felix? ” he asked, glancing at the 
boy in some disapproval. Whenever Chapin had 
a mission of special importance, he called for 
Felix. 

“ Mr. Worth sent him up to the Waldorf, sir, 
to get Henderson’s copy. He left the office five 
minutes ago.” 

Chapin frowned. Then, without losing a second 
over regrets, he said, brusquely: 

“ Very well, Donald; I’ll give the assignment to 
you. You will report to Mr. Ordway, at the Ful- 
ton Street entrance to the Hudson Terminal, 
at once. He just ’phoned in that he wants a boy 
to go out of town with him. There is no time to 
spare, so get over there quick.” 

With this terse command, the local chief dis- 
missed the matter and took up a batch of copy. 


AN OUT OF TOWN ASSIGNMENT 3 


Donald turned away with a fast beating heart. 
He was a new boy on the Record, and no errand 
of this sort had come his way before. During his 
month of service his duties had been confined 
chiefly to carrying the reporters’ manuscripts, 
or bringing in photographs from various points 
in the city, or doing trivial errands here and 
there. Felix, the head copy-boy, of course got 
the cream of the work, and George Waters, who 
ranked next to Felix, was usually around to pick 
up anything good that Felix missed. Donald’s 
heart swelled with triumph, for between him and 
the other two there had been an open feud since 
the day he came to the Record. It was not a 
feud of his own making, but it rankled none the 
less deeply. 

The clock on the wall in the city room showed 
the hour to be almost 10:30. It was the busiest 
time in the local department, for many of the 
reporters had returned from their evening assign- 
ments and were hammering their typewriters 
with a great deal of noise and vigor. The room was 
large and square, yet the typewriter desks fairly 
filled it. Over each desk hung a green globe, and 
overhead, in the ceiling, flared a dazzling arc 
lamp that sputtered and hissed at intervals, as 


4 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


if the task of casting so much light were one of 
great difficulty and importance. Important it 
was. Without the lights, the Record city room 
would have been in sad straits, even by day. 
There were four windows at one side of the room, 
but they opened into a court, with a brick wall 
almost within arm’s reach. The city room was on 
the thirteenth floor of the Record Building, but 
the adjacent wall extended a dozen stories higher 
and cast a shadow of perpetual night. 

Over in one corner was Higgins, minus coat and 
vest and collar, pounding on his typewriter as 
if his life were at issue. Higgins was one of the 
stars. He was thirty years old, weighed two hun- 
dred pounds, and it was said of him that he had 
worked on almost every big newspaper in the 
country, from San Francisco to Boston. His 
invariable procedure, on getting in from an assign- 
ment, was to cast off all the garments he could, 
light his pipe, roll up his sleeves, and then go at it 
like a mad bull. As fast as he finished a page he 
shouted “ Copy! ” in his big bass voice, and there 
was trouble if one of the boys didn’t jump on the 
instant to get his finished product and take it to 
Chapin, or to Worth, the night city editor. Hig- 
gins was a bully if ever there was one, but a man 


AN OUT OF TOWN ASSIGNMENT 5 


of great resource and a brilliant, fascinating wri- 
ter. 

Next to him sat Henderson, the “ cub ” of the 
staff. He was a Cornell boy, six months out of 
college, and laboriously trying to make a place 
for himself in New York newspaperdom. A dandy 
in dress, fastidious in all his likings, he did well 
on society assignments but fell hopelessly short 
when it came to reporting a night fire or a 
hurry-up crime story. 

At the desk to Henderson’s left was Mowbray, 
the gruff political man, and next to him, with his 
cap on the back of his head and a long cigar 
between his teeth, Mansbrook, one of the police 
reporters. He remained on duty all night, until 
the last edition was off the press and there was no 
longer a chance for “ extras.” 

Then there was Franklin, an all-around man 
who could cover a banquet or a murder with 
equal ability; and Campbell, who had accompanied 
the President of the United States on several 
tours of the nation; and Allport, who had gone 
around the world twice on assignments, and who, 
as a war correspondent, had seen fighting in 
Africa, the Philippines, and in Turkey; and 
Rumsey, who was frequently called on to “ jump 


6 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


out of town ”ona few minutes’ notice, and who, 
just as likely as not, would be absent for weeks 
on some mysterious mission known only to 
Chapin and Worth, and the chiefs still higher up. 

There were others, but just at the moment 
Donald had no thought for any of them. As he 
took his overcoat from its hook Higgins was 
bawling “ Copy! ” at the top of his voice, but, for 
the first time, the boy ignored the summons. Just 
now he was something more than a mere copy- 
boy, and he went out and let the big fellow call. 

Once out of the elevator and in Park Row, 
Donald quickened his pace to a run, cut across 
Mail Street to Broadway, and turned into Fulton. 
It was a raw December night, with a light rain 
freezing on the pavement as fast as it fell. The 
treacherous footing impeded his progress, but in 
two or three minutes he reached the huge Terminal 
Building, rising into the shadowy mists of the sky. 
In the entrance-way stood Ordway, waiting for 
him. Ordway was another of the Record’s stars, 
but of a class quite different from Higgins, lack- 
ing altogether the other’s disagreeable airs and 
pomposity. He was big enough of stature, for 
he stood six feet in his stockings, but he was mild 
of speech and genial of temper, and Donald was 


AN OUT OF TOWN ASSIGNMENT 7 


pleased that he was going with Ordway, and not 
Higgins. 

Ordway, he had recalled during his run to the 
Terminal Building, was a Yale man, and this 
fact had drawn the boy to him from the start. 
Yale had been Donald’s ambition. Then, too, 
Ordway had never spoken roughly to him, as so 
many of the reporters had done, and on several 
occasions had said pleasant things to him, and 
often had helped him learn newspaper ways. Ord- 
way himself was not an old hand at it. Scarcely 
three years had elapsed since he got his degree 
at New Haven, but during those years he had 
risen as high as any man on the Record, not ex- 
cepting Higgins himself. Indeed, Donald had 
heard it said that Ordway was better fitted for 
all-around star work because he was smoother, 
and could handle people more cleverly. 

“ Is that you, Don Kirk? ” was Ordway’s 
greeting, as the boy arrived on the run. “ I sup- 
posed of course I’d get that scamp of a Felix.” 

“ Felix was out,” gasped Donald, “ and — 
and George was somewhere up-stairs. Mr. 
Chapin thought I’d answer, sir; he told me to 
hurry.” 

“ Of course,” laughed Ordway, leading the way 


8 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


down the ramps to the underground tunnel 
station; “ of course he told you to hurry. Chapin 
always does that. It’s well enough, too, that he 
did; we haven’t much more than time to get 
across before our train is due to pull out. Really, 
Don, it was good of the old man to send you in- 
stead of Felix. That boy will turn my hair gray 
yet, just as he has turned Chapin’s. What is 
there about Felix Grompe, Don, that makes such 
a hit in the city room? ” 

As he asked the question he bought two tube 
tickets at a booth in the great tiled concourse, and 
they went down a flight of stairs to the' train level. 

Donald had often asked himself this very 
question, without being able to answer it. He 
was glad to know that Ordway shared the same 
curiosity, yet he was a bit surprised, for he had 
almost supposed that Ordway knew everything 
that pertained to the Record. 

“ Why, I’m sure I don’t know,” he said. “ Fe- 
lix himself attributes it to his smartness.” 

Ordway reflected. “ There are different kinds 
of smartness, I’ll admit,” he said. “ Felix pos- 
sesses one kind, no doubt. But don’t attempt to 
emulate it, Don. Felix has risen as high as ever 
he’ll get. You haven’t.” 


AN OUT OF TOWN ASSIGNMENT 9 


This was a cheerful prophecy, and Donald’s 
face glowed with grateful pleasure, but just then 
a tube train drew up with a creaking and groan- 
ing that made words useless. They found seats, 
and in a moment were being whirled under the 
Hudson at almost a mile a minute. Or d way, in 
a corner, made no further attempts at conversa- 
tion. Unknown to the boy, he was engaged 
mentally in comparing the latter with Felix 
Grompe. It would have pleased Donald hugely 
could he have known what passed through his 
big companion’s mind as he sat studying the 
profile of the boy. 

What he saw was a face of unusual character 
for one who occupied Donald’s sphere in life. 
Ordway had known many copy-boys, but most 
of them had been of Felix’s stamp. They had 
come from the lower classes, and had shown little 
ability or inclination to rise above their natural 
limitations. But here was a boy whose head and 
facial contour revealed undoubted pedigree, and 
whose language and bearing indicated breeding. 
His forehead was high and broad, his features 
finely molded, his carriage erect and graceful. 
In dress, too, he stood quite apart from his as- 
sociates on the copy-bench. His black chin- 


10 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


chilla overcoat was new, his dark gray suit 
neatly pressed, his linen in marked contrast to 
the soiled and crumpled attire of the others. The 
blue bow at his throat was of silken texture, and 
the knot had been formed with punctilious care. 
Presently, as he turned his black eyes suddenly 
upon Or d way and caught the latter looking him 
over, he smiled rather questioningly and revealed 
a set of even, white teeth. 

But just then there was no time for questions 
or answers. They left the car at the Erie Station, 
and, passing through a long tunneled passage, 
mounted a flight of steps and found themselves 
on a platform at which stood a railway train. 
As they got aboard, Donald wondered whether 
they were going to Oregon or Mexico, but as 
Ordway did not seem disposed to confide the point, 
he forebore to ask. The only thing that troubled 
him was going away in this fashion without noti- 
fying his aunt, with whom he lived up in the 
Bronx. If he shouldn’t get home by morning, 
however, he assured himself, he could telegraph. 

Thus relieved in mind, he lay back on his seat, 
enjoying the novel experience. They were in the 
smoking-car, and Ordway was filling his pipe 
when the conductor came along to collect the 


AN OUT OF TOWN ASSIGNMENT 11 


fares. But Ordway had mileage, and the desti- 
nation he gave was a strangely named place that 
was new to the boy. It seemed familiar enough 
to the conductor, however, for he tore off the 
coupons and passed along. Donald, still in igno- 
rance, kept silent. 

Ordway smoked contentedly as the train toiled 
up the steep incline and passed through the deep 
rock cut at the top, but as they dropped down to- 
ward the long stretch of New Jersey 44 Meadows ” 
he removed his pipe from his lips and asked, 
rather abruptly: 

44 Why aren’t you in school, Don? You ought 
to be in some 4 prep ’ institution, where you’d 
learn something that would give you a chance 
in the world. You’ll never get an education on 
the copy-bench.” 

The next moment he was sorry for his words, 
for he saw the quick look of pain that came into 
the boy’s face. 

44 1 wish I could go to school, Mr. Ordway,” 
the latter answered, after a moment’s hesitation. 
44 The only reason I don’t go is — because I 
can t. 

There was a tinge of color in Ordway’s face, for 
the boy’s words had come as an unconscious rebuke. 


12 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY -BOY 


“ Of course,” he said kindly; 44 I might have 
known that you’d be in school if you could. 
But say, Don, if you’ll excuse the suggestion, 
isn’t there some way you can make it? I don’t 
like to see a boy of your caliber losing valuable 
years — Oh, I know how it is, myself. I’ve been 
through it all. This getting an education when one 
is short of money is about as tough a proposition 
as a fellow would want. But after all, it’s worth 
a strenuous effort. You’re not a Felix Grompe, 
you know. If you’ll pardon the question, what 
freak of fate landed you on the Record copy- 
bench alongside that little ignoramus? ” 

There was something so confidential and friendly 
in this personal inquiry that the boy answered 
it gladly. It was the first time anybody about 
the office had manifested the slightest interest 
in his history — except Felix and George, and 
their interest had been anything but friendly. 

44 Why, you see,” he said, with a trace of em- 
barrassment, “ it was simply because I — I had 
to have money. Up to a few months ago I’d 
never thought of such a thing, Mr. Ordway. 
And I was really in a * prep ’ school, just as you 
say, up near Boston. We lived at Worcester — 
my mother and I — and we thought we had 


AN OUT OF TOWN ASSIGNMENT 13 


plenty of property to take me through Yale. 
But my father was dead, and the factory that had 
our money went wrong. Then ” — Donald choked 
a little — 44 my mother died, and I came to New 
York to live with my father’s sister. She’s a 
widow, too, and most of her property was swal- 
lowed up by the factory, just as ours was. That’s 
why I’m on the Record, Mr. Ordway, instead of 
in school.” 

Ordway refilled his pipe thoughtfully. 44 I’m 
sorry,” he said. 44 1 know how it is. I was left 
an orphan at twelve, and I had to fight. Yes, 
fight is the word. It was a fight, long, bitter, and 
cruel. I lived with a man who was determined 
that I should not go to college; I was determined 
I would. He wanted me to go along as an under- 
ling, working for a pittance, to be turned over to 
him every Saturday night. When I rebelled, he 
cast me off, and thereafter I was homeless. But 
I went to college, Don; I forced my way through. 
I made the world recognize me, after a fashion, 
and I’m not through with it yet. I’m fighting 
just as hard as ever.” 

The boy’s face was glowing. Ordway ’s words 
were directly in line with his own aspirations; 
long had he wanted a friend with whom he might 


14 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


discuss these matters. It seemed now as if some 
kindly-disposed fate had sent him out on this 
night trip with Ordway. Strange, indeed, did 
it seem to imagine him — the big, brilliant, suc- 
cessful Ordway — as anything different from 
what he was now. And he had made himself 
what he was; he has overcome difficulties, and 
gone to college, and won out in New York! 

“ Oh, I haven’t given up, by any means!” 
Donald exclaimed. <c I’m going to fight, too, Mr. 
Ordway, and I don’t mean to stay on the copy- 
bench any longer than I can help. I want an 
education, and I mean to have it. But,” he hesi- 
tated, and his tone was full of discouragement as 
he continued, “ but it all came so suddenly that 
I — I couldn’t just manage it. You see, Mr. 
Ordway, my aunt has a son of her own to educate. 
She can’t afford to send me to school. And,” 
he added resolutely, “ I don’t mean to live on 
charity. I’m earning my living.” 

“ I understand,” said Ordway. Then, for a 
time, he was silent. When he spoke, there was a 
tinge of regret in his tones. 

“ Don,” he said, “ there is something I’d like 
to tell you, but just at present I’m not going to 
do so. It’s something about myself — about my 


AN OUT OF TOWN ASSIGNMENT 15 


boyhood, and I’m sure it would interest you 
mightily, and maybe help you. But for certain 
reasons, it would be unwise to speak of it now.” 
Ordway laughed. “ I can’t even tell you what the 
reasons are,” he added. “ Queer situation, isn’t 
it? ” 

The boy looked at him wonderingly. “ Why 
can’t you tell me the reasons ? ” he asked. 

Ordway ’s smile was peculiar. “ Because,” he 
said, “the reasons would be the thing itself. 
No, never mind just now what it is. In the 
course of time, if you stick by the Record, I may 
confide the great secret.” 

His manner was half serious, half light. But the 
next moment he was very earnest as he went on : 

“ All I can say for the present is this: stick to 
the Record; I withdraw the opinion I expressed, 
to the effect that you ought to be in school. Of 
course, you ought to be, as a matter of fact, but 
for the present, since you’re not in school, stand 
by the city room.” 

Ordway ’s words were somewhat contradictory 
and mystifying, and he did not clarify them by 
adding: 

“ Don’t take Felix and George for your ex- 
amples. Forget them, and remember that you’re 


16 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


working for Chapin. Work for him. When he 
gives you a thing to do, do it so well that he can 
see what’s in you. Use your wits. I’ll help you 
along. Then — well, perhaps some time I’ll 
explain what the mystery is.” 

Ordway laughed pleasantly, and Donald, much 
puzzled, laughed too. He could not see any pos- 
sible significance in the other’s words, but the very 
words themselves forbade questioning. 

“ Of course I don’t understand,” he answered, 
“ but I’ll be very glad, Mr. Ordway, to do any- 
thing you advise. And I’ll appreciate having 
you help me; I hardly need to tell you that. I’ll 
do everything I can for Mr. Chapin, and for the 
Record, and I’ll use my wits wherever I can. 
I’m awfully glad I could come out here to-night, 
and — ” 

Donald suddenly remembered a question he 
could ask, and he asked it forthwith: 

“ Would you mind telling me, Mr. Ordway, 
where we are going? ” 

“ What? ” exclaimed Ordway. “ Didn’t Chapin 
tell you? ” 

“ No,” returned Don, a little sheepishly; “ you 
can see that he doesn’t think me of any great 
importance.” 


AN OUT OF TOWN ASSIGNMENT 17 


Ordway laughed. 44 I took it for granted that 
you knew/’ he answered. 44 Right here is a 
good place to begin your Chapinesque training. 
Don’t be so backward with questions. Find out all 
you can. Modesty doesn’t do much in newspaper 
work. As to your inquiry, we’re going to a place 
called Tuxedo, and we’ll be there ” — he took 
out his watch — 44 in one minute.” 


CHAPTER II 


TO CATCH THE LAST EDITION 

fTIHE whistle of the engine confirmed Ordway’s 
words, even as he spoke, and the grinding 
of the brakes slowed the train down rapidly. A 
minute later the two stood on a dark station 
platform, with the sleet biting their faces and the 
wind howling down the mountainside and almost 
taking their breath. 

But the next moment the flash of an automo- 
bile’s lights illumined their way, and, as the car 
drew alongside, Ordway opened the door and 
signaled Donald to enter. It was a closed car, 
and the soft luxury of its cushions was very in- 
viting, even after so brief an exposure to the 
December night. Chapin had wired the public 
garage at Tuxedo to have the vehicle meet them, 
Ordway explained. 

“ It was considerate of the old man,” he added, 
with a friendly accent on the “ old man ” part of 
it, “ to get us a limousine.” 

A minute later they were rolling up a steep 


TO CATCH THE LAST EDITION 19 


grade, and Donald was wondering what Ordway 
could be doing out here at midnight, forty miles 
from New York. He was wondering, too, of 
what possible service he might be, himself. These 
unasked questions Ordway proceeded to answer. 

“ I’m up here,” he said, “ for the mere purpose 
of getting an interview. Very simple, isn’t it? 
Interviews, as a rule, are not very exciting — 
though I’ve seen some that have been. In the 
present instance, I don’t look for any fireworks 
so far as our part in the thing is concerned, but 
if we get what we’re after there’ll be some fire- 
works in the other newspaper offices to-morrow. 
The fact is, Don, that this’ll be the biggest polit- 
ical yarn of the year. There’s a conference on at 
one of these Tuxedo cottages — the summer home 
of Senator Holtwood — and it means the making 
of a new party, perhaps. It’s being held out 
here, you see, to escape the newspaper men.” 

Ordway chuckled. 

“ It’s pretty hard to do that, isn’t it? ” asked 
Donald. 

“ Not always. In this case, we had a narrow 
escape. But we’re the only ones, so far, who’ve 
got wind of the thing, and Chapin wants to 
play it hard,” 


20 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


Then a doubtful note crept into Ordway’s voice 
as he added: 

“ We haven’t got it, even yet. Unless I can con- 
firm the reports I picked up to-night in New 
York — Well, we’ll hope for the best. It’s up 
to us, Don, to make it, or fail.” 

And then, as the boy’s lips were framing a 
question, Ordway went on: 

“ Your part will be to take my lead — if I get 
one — and run down to Ramapo with it. Ramapo, 
you see, is the nearest night telegraph office. It’s 
five miles down the railroad, but the auto will 
get you there in a hurry.” 

“ I’d like to do more to help you,” said Donald. 
“ My part will be very easy. Why, it’ll be easier, 
even, than carrying copy back in New York.” 

Ordway was silent for a few moments, and they 
could hear the sleet pounding the roof of the 
limousine and crackling under the wheels. 

“ Well,” he said at length musingly, “ no mat- 
ter how easy your part may be, it’s quite as im- 
portant as mine. And remember that things 
which look easy often prove difficult. I’ve seen 
the time frequently when the hardest part of 
an assignment was the task of getting the news 
into the office after I’d got it. Once, when I 


TO CATCH THE LAST EDITION 21 


was over in Pennsylvania on a mine riot, the night 
operator refused to put my stuff on the wire. It 
was after midnight, and a furious storm was 
blowing down from the north — rain and snow and 
wind. The fellow had the impudence to read my 
copy through from start to finish, and then toss 
it on the floor and trample on it. He was employed 
by the telegraph company to take what was offered 
him, but he constituted himself a censor and de- 
clared that if the Record wanted the story I 
might take it there myself. And the only other 
telegraph office available was twelve miles away.” 

Donald was beset by a sudden apprehension. 
Perhaps, he thought, his part might not be so 
easy, after all. 

“ And you had to go twelve miles? ” he asked. 

“ No.” Ord way’s tone was a bit short. “ The 
roads were impassable, and even if I’d had plenty 
of time and a good rig, I could scarcely have 
made it. I stayed right where I was — and the 
story reached the Record in time for the last 
edition.” 

“ How? ” asked Donald, as Ordway was silent. 

“ Well, you see, Don, there was no alternative. 
That fellow had to do his duty, and he did. The 
less said about it, the better.” 


22 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


“ But you don’t think — ” began Donald. 

“ I know of another operator who refused to 
send a story,” continued Ordway. “ He didn’t 
have time, he said. He didn’t propose to hold up 
the railroad work for all the newspapers on earth, 
even if the papers never got the news. Well, it 
was pretty close to the dead-line, and I can tell 
you there was a bunch of anxious reporters around 
that little depot. They held a consultation out- 
side, under the water-tank, and they decided that 
if it came to the point of holding up the railroad 
or the newspapers, ’t would be the railroad.” 

“ Which was it? ” asked Donald. 

“ The railroad. For ten minutes every train 
on the division was halted. The fast express 
waited for orders, and all the machinery stood 
still until the newspapers got their story. That 
was better than having a smash-up, you see.” 

“ But how did they get the operator to do it? ” 
the boy inquired. 

“ It was all quite simple,” answered Ordway. 
“ Men will do a lot of things when they have to — 
especially when there is a water-tank handy.” 

They whirred along for a time in silence, the 
ice hammering the windows viciously. Donald 
had food for thought. He began to see his own 


TO CATCH THE LAST EDITION 23 


responsibilities in a new light. He was wonder- 
ing what he should do if some similar contingency 
should arise on this very night. Ordway per- 
ceived the effect his narrative had caused, and 
presently he remarked, with a laugh: 

“ But don’t borrow trouble, Don; nothing of 
the sort is apt to turn up to-night. The worst 
you can look for is trouble on the wires due to 
the ice. If that happens, of course we can’t 
help it. I mean to rush the first batch of copy 
through as fast as I can, so as to give you plenty 
of time.” 

As he finished, the car drew up before a brightly 
lighted mansion, set among a forest of bare- 
boughed trees that glistened as their icy coating 
caught the rays from the windows. Ordway had 
spoken of Senator Holtwood’s place as a cottage, 
but to Donald it seemed more like a palace that 
had been dropped by accident into the midst of 
some great lonely wood. Far above, he could 
hear the gale howling along the mountainside, 
and, as they emerged from the car, the pelting 
ice stung their faces. 

A servant answered Ordway ’s ring, and they 
were admitted to a cheerful reception hall, where 
Donald waited with trepidation on an upholstered 


24 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY -BOY 


window-seat, while his companion followed the 
servant to another part of the house. A tall, 
solemn “ grandfather’s clock ” in one corner in- 
dicated the time to be a quarter past twelve. 
This fact the clock confirmed a second later with 
a soft pealing of chimes. Don took out his watch 
and compared the two. There was only half a 
minute’s variation. 

The house was quiet, and the ticking of the 
clock seemed to say: “ Ord-way, Ord-way, Ord- 
way,” over and over. There had always been a 
sort of mysticism about this man Ordway, ever 
since the day Donald had first seen him, and now 
that the boy had come in closer contact, this 
feeling was intensified. The admiration the lad 
had felt was now almost adoration. Ordway was 
vested with supernatural powers, it seemed to 
him, else how could he hope to come here and 
carry off a secret that had been guarded so 
closely? 

Then Donald smiled to himself. How could 
they help telling Ordway? His very presence 
would compel them to tell. 

And then the boy fell into deep reflection. 
Ordway, as a boy, had been adrift in the world 
much as he himself was adrift. Whatever Ord- 


TO CATCH THE LAST EDITION 25 


way was, he had accomplished in the face of great 
obstacles. This was the most comforting thought 
Donald had found in many a day. And Ordway 
was going to help him — but how? What could 
he have meant by his mysterious utterances? 

For many a day thereafter, the boy had oc- 
casion to ask himself this question, and the puzzle 
grew deeper and deeper. 

The clock was chiming 12:30 when Ordway re- 
entered the reception room. He moved with a 
briskness that bespoke success. The trade of the 
interviewer is to open unwilling lips, and Ordway 
knew his trade. 

44 It’s all right,” he said; ‘ 4 it’s better than I 
expected. In just a few minutes I’ll have the lead 
ready for you — and when Chapin gets it he can 
spread as big as he wishes.” 

Then, with a pad on his knee for a desk, Ord- 
way wrote page after page, with a pencil, and, 
when he had finished, gathered the sheets with a 
swoop. 

44 There! ” he said, with a sigh. 44 Now, Don, 
it’s up to you. Get down to Ramapo with this, 
as fast as the car’ll take you. Stay there until 
you get the Record’s O. K. on the last word of 
it, and then come back. I’m going to stay here 


26 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


until this meeting breaks up. Meanwhile, I’ll 
write some more copy. But,” he put his hand on 
the boy’s knee in emphasis, “ you’ve got the 
story in substance. Don’t let anything happen 
to the copy, whatever you do. We’ve got the 
whole country beaten.” 

Donald already had his overcoat on. He 
thrust the precious copy far down into its deepest 
recess, and buttoned the collar about his throat. 

“ I’ll take care of it, Mr. Ordway,” he said, 
w and I’ll get it on the wire as soon as I can.” 

“ All right,” laughed Ordway; “ I don’t think 
the Ramapo operator will balk. But if you should 
find any trouble with the wires to New York, call 
me up by ’phone as soon as you can.” 

A minute later the automobile was taking him 
down the hill as fast as the chauffeur dared to go 
in the storm. Donald, huddled in one corner, 
felt his heart beating against Ord way’s manuscript. 
A hundred imaginary difficulties arose in his mind. 
Suppose this operator, like the one Ordway had 
told him about, should refuse to send the story! 
Or suppose Ordway had been mistaken about 
there being a night operator at Ramapo! Or 
suppose the wires should be down! He wondered 
how long it would take the automobile to make 


TO CATCH THE LAST EDITION 27 


the trip to New York. Forty miles on such a 
night would be a dubious feat. He struck a 
match and looked at his watch. Only two or 
three minutes had elapsed since he left the Sena- 
tor’s house. 

The night was dark, and he could see nothing 
at all from the windows except the glint of the 
lamps on the icy road ahead. For a moment the 
car slowed down as it passed through the wide 
archway that marked the Tuxedo portal. The 
little house of the gatekeeper flashed by, and for 
an instant the boy got a glimpse of the guardian 
himself, standing in the open doorway with a 
lantern. He had asked them no questions. 
Tuxedo is a place where big automobiles are com- 
mon. On foot, a stranger would be challenged 
and halted. 

Then they were in the public road, paralleling 
the railroad track. An icy, glaring path it was, 
and, as the chauffeur picked up his speed, the 
chains cut the slippery surface sharply and the 
wheels skidded. Ahead, the way looked like a 
ribbon of water. Under the blinding eyes of the 
car it scintillated as if the roadway had been 
paved with gems. 

Then suddenly came a sharp bend, where the 


28 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY- BOY 


ice lay smooth as a polished floor. As they took it, 
Donald saw the chauffeur throw himself on his 
levers. There was a swaying motion, and the boy 
clutched at the hand-bar in front to keep himself 
on the seat. Careening and skidding, the limou- 
sine slid toward the ditch and brought up with a 
crash against the fence. 

Donald crawled out on the free side and 
promptly went down on the treacherous ice. The 
chauffeur, still in the driving-seat, was trying to 
work his levers. 

“ She won’t go,” he said, and the boy’s heart 
seemed to stand still. “ She won’t go at all.” 

“ She’s got to go,” was Donald’s ultimatum. 
“ She’s simply got to.” 

“ But suppose she won’t? ” said the man, ceas- 
ing his efforts for the moment. “ Suppose she 
won’t? What then? ” 

This was an alternative hard to accept. 

“ How far have we come? ” the boy asked. 

“ About a mile and a half from the Tuxedo 
station.” Again the chauffeur tried to start his 
car, but again he failed. “ Somethin’s locked 
inside of her,” he declared. “ She won’t 
budge.” 

He got down and opened the hood. Then he 


TO CATCH THE LAST EDITION 29 


got an electric torch and held it far down in the 
mechanism, but the trouble was not so easily 
located. Donald took the torch and tried to 
aid him, but without result. 

“ Then there’s only one thing to do,” concluded 
the boy; “ I’ll have to go on, afoot. If we’ve come 
a mile and a half from the Tuxedo depot, then 
it’s three miles and a half to Ramapo. It would 
do no good to go back. I’ll go on.” 

<fi You’ll never get there,” predicted the driver; 
“ you can hardly stand up, as it is. You’ll break 
your neck on this ice.” 

The boy paid no heed to this dire prediction. 
“ This copy has got to get to the Record in time 
for the last edition,” he said. “ How long do 
you think it will take me to make it? ” 

“ All night,” said the man dismally. 

Donald felt something like resentment. The 
chauffeur might at least offer a bit of encourage- 
ment, he thought. He unbuttoned his overcoat 
and took out his watch, holding it in the glow of 
a lamp. 

“ It’s two minutes past one,” he said. “ Ordi- 
narily I could run that distance in half an hour. 
If I can make it now in an hour, I’ll be there 
a little after two. The last edition closes about 


30 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


two forty-five. That’ll give me time enough to get 
the story in.” 

“ You can’t do it,” insisted the man. “ You 
couldn’t make more than two miles an hour over 
this ice to save your life. Better wait here and 
perhaps I’ll get the car going.” 

Donald hesitated only a moment. “ No,” 
he said, and his resolution was strengthened by 
the recollection of what Ordway had said on the 
train. “ I can’t take the chance,” he went on. 
“ If you overtake me, all right, but I can’t wait 
for you. I’m going; good-by.” 

“ If you’re bound to go,” the man called after 
him, “ you’d better take the railroad track. 
You’ll get a firmer footing over there. If I get the 
car fixed, you’ll see the lights and I’ll stop for 
you. The road follows the track pretty close.” 

“ All right,” answered Donald; “ all right, 
I’ll keep watch for you.” 

He climbed the fence, crawled up the embank- 
ment on all fours, and, once on the track, gained 
his feet. Then, turning his face to the southward, 
he started off on a cautious jog, his feet slip- 
ping at every step and the sleet stinging his face. 


CHAPTER III 


A RACE WITH TIME 

fTlEN minutes later, Donald’s foot suddenly 
went through a culvert. With a plunge 
forward, he sprawled upon the slippery track, 
and for a minute it seemed as if his imprisoned 
leg was being torn into shreds. If a vise had 
closed upon it and then commenced to revolve, 
the pain could not have been much greater. 

What the boy suffered during that minute, he 
did not like to think about afterward. As he lay 
on the icy ties, it seemed to him that the end of 
all things had come. Long rainbows seemed to 
dance before him; the earth seemed swimming off 
into space. He imagined that his leg had been 
drawn out double its length, and then compressed 
to the size of his forearm. Jumping pains shot 
up into his back and down to his foot. 

Then he got on one knee, and, reaching down 
between the timbers of the culvert, felt to see 
if his foot was really there. It was, and it seemed 


32 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


likely to stay there. Firmly wedged, it resisted 
his efforts to get it out. Here he was, in the 
middle of a railroad track, and the flash of a 
headlight might show itself at any moment. 

For a few seconds he almost forgot the pain. 
Hurt or no hurt, he must get his foot loose. Cast- 
ing aside his gloves, he unlaced the shoe hurriedly. 
Then, rising, he worked his foot out. Stooping 
again, he got the shoe, and, somehow, got his 
foot into it. 

But now what was he to do? He was midway 
between the Holtwood cottage and Ramapo, and 
he couldn’t walk. It was quite out of the question, 
he thought, when he put his foot on the ground 
again, to walk even a rod. 

But presently, as he made his attempt, he re- * 
called what Ordway had said about doing things 
when one had to. It was clear enough that he 
must walk, and walk fast. 

And walk he did. What did it matter whether 
it hurt him, when Ord way’s copy must get in? 
If it killed him, he would get it in ! 

He stopped, presently, and took off his overcoat. 
It was weighted down now with the sleet, and he 
resolved to be rid of it. What was an overcoat, 
anyway, when the biggest news-story of the year 


A RACE WITH TIME 


33 


was at stake? What did anything matter except 
the copy? 

Haying transferred the manuscript to his inner 
coat, he tossed the heavy chinchilla into the 
ditch. Let any one get it who wanted it; he 
didn’t. 

Ramapo, he reflected, as he walked again, could 
not be much more than two miles away. Somehow, 
he would get there. Two miles, in reality, was 
such a little distance. Two miles! Why, back 
at school he had run that insignificant distance 
often in sixteen or eighteen minutes, without 
much exertion. Why should it take him forever 
now? 

It did seem as if it were taking him forever, 
and with each step he groaned, but kept on. 
“ What’s two miles? ” he kept saying. “ What’s 
an overcoat? What’s a leg? ” Over and over, he 
repeated these phrases, and the words seemed to 
help him. He couldn’t forget what Ordway had 
said to him — those strange, inexplicable words on 
the train. Well, no matter what Ordway had 
meant by them, the copy must get in. It was 
for the Record he was doing it, and failure was 
not to be thought of. 

He crossed a bridge on his hands and knees, 


34 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


and, as he rose again, a red speck gleamed in the 
distance, then a green one. His heart went to his 
throat. Could these be the Ramapo switch lights? 
They were not, he soon discovered. When he 
came abreast of the little station he found it 
dark and deserted. Ramapo was still further on. 

Nevertheless, he paused long enough to hammer 
on the station door, and to hammer again. He 
kicked it, forgetting his twisted knee, and im- 
mediately sat down on the platform, convulsed 
with the agony. For a time he thought he would 
never get up again. 

However, he did get up, and once more he 
dragged himself down the track at what seemed 
scarcely more than a snail’s pace. His heart 
was thumping heavily now, and the night seemed 
to swim before his dizzy eyes. The giddiness 
worried him afresh. What if he should fail, after 
all? What if this very first important assignment 
should turn out to be a “fall-down ” ? The thought 
goaded him beyond endurance, and for a few 
minutes the sprained knee was almost forgotten 
and the dizziness quite ignored. One thing was 
sure : every step was a link in the chain that would 
forge success, and Ramapo could not be far away 


now. 


A RACE WITH TIME 


35 


But what time was it? he asked himself. He 
had felt in his pocket vainly for matches. For 
aught he knew, it might be too late already. 
This thought once more quickened him. Only 
a succession of impulses, following each other 
with incisive force, now kept him up. Every 
throb of his knee said 44 Ramapo; ” every beat of 
his heart said 44 Keep going! ” 

Keep going he did. Far down the track he 
heard the whistle of an approaching train, and, 
presently, its dull rumble. Its headlight flared 
upon him, and he stepped aside and watched the 
thing go by. With a rush and a cyclonic cloud of 
pulverized ice, the train swept past, and he was 
conscious only of a rapid succession of lights and 
a sensation of sickness. He was safe, but the nar- 
row margin that had separated him from death 
at the culvert appalled him. 

He resolved not to risk any more culverts, so 
he dragged himself to the fence and got over it, 
into the road. For a moment he looked backward 
through the darkness in the faint hope that the 
automobile might yet show itself — a hope that 
proved vain. 

But he went on. Only one word was ringing in 
his ears now: “Ramapo!” A queer word it 


36 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


was, and a word he had never heard spoken 
until that night, but now it had become the most 
important word in all his vocabulary. If he had 
to hop along on one leg, he would get to Ramapo 
in time for the last edition. Grimly he shut his 
lips together and dragged himself on. 

It seemed to him now that his leg had grown 
into a barrel, and that every time he set down 
his foot, the barrel threatened to break its hoops 
and fly into fragments. He stopped for a moment 
to feel of it, to make sure that it wasn’t a barrel 
in reality. He was somewhat surprised to find 
it still a leg. 

Every few minutes he felt of his pocket, too, 
to assure himself that Ordway’s copy was there. 
Ord way’s copy and Ramapo! His whole world, 
for the moment, was concentrated upon those 
two thoughts — and his leg ! 

The sleet was not diminishing, and the glare 
of the road was like a dancing floor, he thought, 
that had been greased. If only he had a pair of 
skates, he could get to Ramapo in a hurry. He 
might take a tumble or two — And then he did 
take a tumble, in reality, and lived over once 
more all the anguish he had gone through before. 

But he was up again, after a time. He couldn’t 


A RACE WITH TIME 


37 


walk, couldn’t possibly walk, he told himself. 
Not even for the Record. But he must! A man 
could do a lot of things when he had to, and so 
could a boy. 

How he completed the journey he was never 
able to explain afterward. He couldn’t walk, 
but he did! He couldn’t touch his foot to the 
ground, he affirmed, but he must have touched 
it. His leg was a hogshead now, fully as big, he 
thought, and fully as heavy. It was utterly im- 
possible for him to lift it, but, somehow, he must 
have done it. 

Indeed, he had a recollection, afterward, of 
running. How he managed to run, he had no 
idea, but he was sure of it. He was sure, too, 
that he was on the point of falling every moment. 
That ever-present giddiness made him spin around 
like a top. Around and around he went — he knew 
he did. Perhaps that accounted for it. Perhaps 
he had spun into Ramapo. 

Yes, he did get to Ramapo. He saw more red 
and green lights, and clusters of white lights, and 
more red and green again. There were a million 
red ones, and a billion green ones, and then the 
dimly lighted little railroad station, with its 


38 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


window lights beckoning him to hold on just a 
moment longer. Ramapo, at last! 

The click of the telegraph instrument was the 
sweetest music the boy ever had heard. Stagger- 
ing across the platform, he steered for the door 
much as a mariner might steer for a harbor in 
the stress of a gale. It opened before his weight, 
and he fell at full length on the floor as the 
startled operator came running from his room to 
find out what the commotion was. 

“ What — what time is it? ” gasped Donald, 
striving to rise. “ What time — is it? ” 

“ About two-fifteen,’ ’ answered the operator, 
amazed. “ What’s the matter with you? Where’d 
you come from? ” 

He helped the boy to his feet, but Donald did 
not answer the questions just then. “ Hold on to 
me,” he said, “ till I get — get something out — 
out of my pocket.” 

Having extracted Ordway’s copy, with some 
difficulty, he held it unsteadily toward the tele- 
graph man. “ Record — last edition — rush it.” 

Having said this, he sank back to the floor, 
rolled over on his back with a little grunt of con- 
tentment, and closed his eyes. 

The operator was alarmed. Bending over, he 



When he heard the fast click of the key, he lay back again. 

Page 39. 









A RACE WITH TIME 


39 


shook the boy rather roughly. “ What’s the mat- 
ter? ” he demanded. “ Are you hurt? ” 

Donald sat up suddenly, his eyes almost flash- 
ing fire. “ No! ” he cried, with surprising vigor. 
“ No, not much. Never mind me; I’m only — 
only tired. Record — rush it! ” 

He sat there and watched the operator disap- 
pear into his den. Then, when he heard the fast 
click of the key, he lay back again, prone on the 
floor. He remembered a pastoral picture he had 
seen in the Holtwood reception room — a picture 
that had seemed to breathe of peace and rest. 
But the rest depicted in that painting, he re- 
flected, as he gazed at the ceiling and felt his 
heart gradually subsiding, was nothing compared 
to the wonderful peace he now felt himself. 

Finally the operator came out of his room. “ It’s 
all in,” he said, “ and it’s just two forty-one. 
Did you foot it down here from Tuxedo? ” 

Before Donald could answer there was a commo- 
tion outside the station. The swish of wheels on 
the icy road reached them like the splashing of 
water, followed by the voices of men, and then 
by hurried footsteps on the platform. The 
station door burst open with a bang, and through 
the depot strode Ordway like a cyclone. His 


40 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


whole interest was focused on the operator’s 
room, and, for the moment, he did not see the boy 
on the floor or the operator standing over him. 
Instead, he stood glaring into the empty tele- 
graph room, the muscles of his face tense with 
resolution. Then the operator spoke, and he 
turned. 

“ Don! ” he exclaimed, his whole bearing 
changing in an instant. “ Thank heaven, you’re 
here! The copy — quick! Has it gone in? ” 

“ All in, sir,” returned the telegraph man, with 
a tinge of pride in his own part of the work. “ All 
in, sir, and O. K.’d two minutes ago by the Record. 
Your stuff caught the last edition by a pretty 
close margin.” 

Ordway knelt on the floor and put his hand on 
the boy’s shoulder. “ Don,” he said, with a 
softness that might almost have been a woman’s, 
“ you’re the sort we want on the Record. When 
you didn’t come back, I knew that something had 
happened to you, and I tried for ten minutes to 
get the Ramapo station by ’phone. I couldn’t 
make it, and the telephone company reported 
the wires out of service to New York, as well. 
Then, when you still failed to return, I borrowed 
the Senator’s car and came down here myself, 


A RACE WITH TIME 


41 


but we had trouble getting here, I can tell you. 
On the way I passed your chauffeur, and he re- 
ported that you had gone down the track. I 
didn’t think you could make it, Don; I was 
sure we were going to miss out, after all, on the 
biggest scoop we’ve had this winter. But you 
did it, didn’t you? ” 

There was an air of confidence and pride in 
Ordway’s words that meant more to Donald than 
the most lavish praise would have meant. But 
just then he twisted his leg in trying to rise, and 
a deep groan escaped him involuntarily. 

“ It’s only my knee,” he said, trying to smile 
as he saw the concern in the face of his big compan- 
ion. “ It’s only my knee, Mr. Ordway; but I 
don’t think it’s hurt very much.” 


CHAPTER IV 


A CONSPIRACY PLANNED 

TjlELIX GROMPE was a gaunt, freckled-faced 
youth of sixteen, with greenish-gray eyes 
and coarse features. His head, by its uneven de- 
velopment, showed a lack of balance somewhere, 
and his ungainly, slouching figure had the atmos- 
phere one often sees in the habitues of the Bowery. 
Indeed, Felix lived not far from the Bowery itself, 
in an East Side tenement where the associations 
were, of course, of low order. If Felix lacked moral 
perception or a high order of standards, it was 
not to be wondered at. He had never had a chance 
in the world. Still, there was no gainsaying the 
fact that Felix was not a good boy at heart. 

For two years this unwholesome youth had 
lorded it over the little group of copy-boys on 
the Record. He had seen many of them come and 
go during those years, and why Felix remained 
was, indeed, an odd question. His permanence, 
perhaps, was due to the fact that he was sly 
enough not to get caught, and shrewd enough to 


A CONSPIRACY PLANNED 


43 


please Mr. Chapin. Chapin was not a man to 
brook incompetence; neither was he a man to 
concern himself greatly over the private life of 
his workers. Felix had done his work well, and 
had shown a considerable degree of ingenuity and 
resource. More than once he had received a re- 
ward in the shape of a shining twenty-dollar 
gold piece, and these rewards, in the aggregate, 
had swelled Felix’s self-esteem until it had be- 
come well-nigh unbearable to most of the copy- 
boys whom he ruled. Many a boy had dropped out 
because of Felix, though some of them went 
without knowing that Felix had helped them 
to go. 

The coming of Donald Kirk to the Record had 
tried Felix more than anything else in his career. 
The reason was simple. In Donald, Felix at once 
recognized a type of boy that had no place, in 
his opinion, in the scheme of that newspaper. 
Several times before, such boys had drifted into 
the city room and for brief intervals had occupied 
places on the copy-boys’ bench, but Felix had 
seen that their tenure ended abruptly. He 
wanted nobody there who promised to outstrip 
him in the city editor’s favor. In Donald he saw, 
from the very beginning, a dangerous rival. 


44 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


Felix had almost no education, not any station 
whatever, and only such breeding as he had picked 
up unconsciously through contact with the men 
of the staff. Had he possessed the groundwork 
on which to build, he might have stogd an ex- 
cellent chance of finding himself, some day, at 
an editor’s desk. But he was hopelessly igno- 
rant, and the worst of it was that he hadn’t the 
depth to see it. Many a boy who began where 
Felix did has gone up to the top rung of the lad- 
der, self-educated and self-made, and Felix — 
poor, self-deceived Felix! — fondly expected to 
be city editor some time. 

Up to the time when Donald distinguished him- 
self in the Tuxedo assignment, Felix had arrived 
at no adequate plan for disposing of him. That 
affair had come, however, like a thunderbolt. 
In the first place, the fact that Chapin had sent 
Donald with Ordway, instead of sending Felix, 
was an omen not to be overlooked. In the second 
place, Donald’s fame in the office filled the other 
youth with malignant hatred. 

There was only one person with whom Felix 
shared his sentiments, however; that person was 
George Waters, another copy-boy. 

“ There’s no two ways about it,” said Felix 


A CONSPIRACY PLANNED 


45 


to George, on the day following the Tuxedo 
affair. 4 4 There’s no two ways about it, Georgie; 
we’ve got to 4 do ’ Kirk somehow. If we don’t, 
he’ll get solid with Chapin and grab off all the 
choice morsels.” 

44 How are we going to 4 do ’ him? ” asked 
George, who came of a type considerably higher 
than Felix, but who, unfortunately, had a weak 
and vicious disposition. Under proper surround- 
ings, he might have developed into a very good 
sort of man, but Felix had been undermining 
him for a year. He was quite ready now to see 
things through Felix’s eyes. 

44 Well,” said Felix, 44 I’m sure I don’t know, 
but some way will turn up, Georgie, and we’ll 
just lay low and wait. We can’t have a chap 
like him on the Record, can we, George? ” 

44 No,” agreed the other rather listlessly, as 
he leaned back in the reporter’s chair he was oc- 
cupying, and put his feet on a typewriter desk; 
44 no, Felix, I s’pose we can’t.” 

His lack of enthusiasm displeased Felix. Still 
speaking in low tones, but with more vigor, the 
latter leaned forward and said bluntly : 

44 What’s the matter with you? You don’t 
act like you cared. Don’t you know that Kirk 


46 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


will run you off the paper if we don’t 4 get ’ him 
pretty quick? Don’t you know that? ” 

44 Well,” retorted George, with a slight show 
of resentment, 44 we don’t need to worry about 
him for a couple o’ weeks. He’s up home in the 
Bronx, ain’t he? He ain’t able to walk.” 

44 So much the better!” snapped Felix. 44 1 
wish he’d never be able to walk. But he will 
walk, Georgie, and he’ll be back here all swelled 
up as big as a punkin. He’s got Ordway crazy 
over him already. Say, how much do you s’pose 
he’ll get for the trick he done last night? ” 

44 I dunno,” said George. 

44 Well,” said Felix reflectively, 44 I’ll bet he’ll 
get a fifty-dollar bill, at least.” He clenched his 
teeth, adding: 44 If old Worth hadn’t sent me up 
to the Waldorf, I’d have got the fifty, instead o’ 
him.” 

George turned his watery gaze languidly upon 
his companion, while a gleam of mischief shone in 
his eyes. 

44 Maybe you wouldn’t,” he suggested. 
44 Maybe if you’d went with Ordway, Felix, the 
Record wouldn’t ’a’ had the story, at all.” 

Then he poked the head copy-boy in the ribs 
playfully, which liberty Felix resented by slap- 


A CONSPIRACY PLANNED 


47 


ping his mouth with a resounding whack. The 
commotion disturbed Higgins, who, peeled down to 
his shirt, was hitting a near-by typewriter with 
the impact of a miniature pile-driver. 

44 Come, there! ” he shouted. 44 Get out, you 
kids! Get over on the bench where you belong 
or I’ll break your backs, both of you! ” 

This was a favorite threat with Higgins. He 
had threatened to break the back of almost 
every boy who had been on the Record since 
he had been there himself. If there was any ex- 
ception, the favored boy had been Donald. 
Since no boys had had their backs broken, how- 
ever, Felix and George were not seriously alarmed. 
But they held Higgins in wholesome respect, 
and they retired without comment to their bench. 
Here, until the city editor’s buzzer disturbed 
them, they held a whispered conversation that 
boded Donald no good. 

It was more than two weeks before Donald 
was able to take up his duties again, and for a 
week after that he walked with a limp. As a 
consequence he was favored with the lightest 
errands, and had a great deal of time to himself 
in the city room. This he availed himself of in 
two ways : first, he devoted a part of his leisure to 


48 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


reading books of biography and history that he 
found in the Record’s library; second, he prac- 
ticed assiduously upon the typewriters and de- 
voted himself to a study of newspaper English. 

Felix disapproved, especially of the typewriting. 

44 Let those machines alone, Kirk,” he com- 
manded. 44 It’s no wonder they’re always out of 
order, when you hammer away at them like a 
blacksmith. Don’t you know they’re not to play 
with? I’ll report you to Chapin.” 

44 I’ve already been reported,” observed Donald, 
going on with his practice. 

44 Who reported you? ” Felix demanded. 
44 What are you talking about? ” 

44 I reported myself,” Donald said quietly. 
“ I asked Mr. Chapin if I could practice, and he 
said yes.” 

Felix’s jaw dropped. He never had troubled 
his head to learn typewriting, and he perceived 
now that Donald was on the track of still another 
advantage. 

“ Well,” he declared, because he had nothing 
better to say just at the moment, 4 4 if I was you 
I’d ask Mr. Ordway before I opened up his desk 
and made free with his machine. I s’pose of 
course you know whose machine you’ve got.” 


A CONSPIRACY PLANNED 


49 


“Yes,” said Donald, putting in a fresh sheet of 
paper; “ it was Mr. Ordway himself who offered 
to let me use it.” 

Felix, thus disconcerted, stood for a minute in 
silence. Then, unable to restrain his anger and 
chagrin, he came nearer, put his mouth close to 
Donald’s ear, and remarked: 

“ You’re a stuck-up little snip! Since you did 
your fancy trick out at Tuxedo, there’s no livin’ 
with you. Oh, I know how you’re playin’ baby, 
and limpin’ ’round as if you had only one leg! 
I know all about it, Kirk! It wasn’t such a 
wonderful thing you done, anyhow, to walk three 
miles on a railroad track. Who couldn’t ’a’ done 
it? Who wouldn’t do it for fifty dollars and a 
new overcoat, and two weeks’ vacation? I’d 
advise you to come down out of the clouds and 
stop puttin’ on airs. Some day you’ll get an 
assignment that won’t be so fine. You’ll fall 
down on it, and then Chapin will whistle the other 
tune. Better look out, Kirk. This newspaper 
game ain’t all such fine sailin’.” 

Donald let his hands drop from the machine 
suddenly. As he turned toward his tormentor 
his black eyes fairly blazed. Unconsciously, Felix 
shrank before them. Donald was much smaller 


50 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


than he, but was no coward, and the persecutions 
of Felix had reached a culmination. 

“ Do you mean,” he demanded, in a low voice 
that trembled a little, “ to accuse me of limping 
so as to get out of work? ” 

Felix was not especially given to physical 
bravery. There was some alarm in his eyes as 
he saw the other boy’s fists doubled up. He took 
a step backward. 

“ Well,” he said, half recanting his words, 
“ you may be lame, but I don’t think you ought 
to make so much of it.” 

Donald let his eyes rest on Felix’s white face 
for half a minute. He read the cowardice in the 
bigger boy’s make-up, and gradually his fists 
relaxed and he turned back to his typewriter. 
There was a contemptuous look in his own eyes 
a moment later as he turned them again on the 
other. 

“ All right, Felix,” he said; “ I’m glad you 
didn’t really think I was acting a fraud. What’s 
the use having any more words over the thing? 
I know you’d have liked that Tuxedo assignment, 
but you didn’t get it and that’s all there is to it. 
There’ll be plenty more chances, I suppose, but 
you can’t expect to go along forever getting them 


A CONSPIRACY PLANNED 


51 


all. I’m not here for fun, and the sooner it’s 
understood, the better. That’s all! ” 

Thus dismissed, Felix moved off in utter defeat. 
Never before in his long rule of the copy-bench 
had he met such overwhelming defeat at the 
hands of an associate. The returning color in 
his face told how deep was his humiliation. 
“That’s all!” Donald had said, in unconscious 
superiority. The words had cut like a whip. 
But under his breath Felix muttered that it wasn’t 
all, by any means. 

Nor was it. Unseen by either of the boys, Ord- 
way had entered the city room during the dia- 
logue. Crossing to his desk while they were 
absorbed in the foolish little quarrel, he had caught 
most of the verbal duel. There was an odd look 
on his face as he saw Felix go away vanquished. 
Donald, however, was much troubled when he 
looked up and saw Ordway standing there. He 
got up quickly, relinquishing the desk to its 
rightful occupant. 

Ordway, however, made no reference to the 
incident. He merely remarked, as he sat down : 

“ Getting expert on the typewriter, Don? 
I’m glad to see that you keep at it.” 

“ I’m afraid I’m a long way from being expert,” 


52 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


sighed Donald. Then he brightened. 4 4 Here’s 
a lead to an imaginary news-story I’ve been 
writing,” he added. 44 If you have time, Mr. 
Ordway, I’d like to have you criticize it.” 


CHAPTER V 


CHASING A DIPLOMAT 

/~\NE February afternoon Donald had an- 
other adventure of quite a different sort, 
and one that did not come to the sly ears of 
Felix Grompe. Nor did it come immediately even 
to the ears of the city editor. 

In the city room was a new reporter, a man 
named Duff, who had drifted into New York 
from the West, and, chancing to find an opening 
on the Record, had been taken on temporarily. 
Chapin often tried men out for a day or two, and 
as often let them go peremptorily. The strict 
law of the Record astonished many a candidate 
accustomed to the lax rule of other city editors. 
Record men had absolute standards to live up to, 
and those standards were by no means easy. 
Chapin seldom asked many questions; the first 
assignment usually sufficed. And now Chapin 
called Duff into his den and said to him: 

“ Duff, I want you to go up to the Astor and 
get an interview from Commissioner Fielding. 


54 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


He leaves New York to-night on his mission, and 
I’d like half a column, at least. If you get some- 
thing especially good, you can stretch it a little.” 

Duff, who was a short, pompous young chap, 
smooth-faced and bland, looked the city editor 
full in the eyes and said promptly: 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“You are likely to catch the Commissioner at 
luncheon,” the city editor went on, “ and you can 
finish him up in a few minutes. Then I want you 
to write your stuff there at the hotel. I’ll send a 
boy along with you to bring it in. After that, 
go over to the New York Central freight house and 
get us a good story on the blockade up there.” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Duff. 

Chapin touched his buzzer, and Donald chanced 
to be the boy who answered the call. 

“ Go out with Duff,” said the editor; “ he’ll 
explain what he wants you to do.” 

Chapin was always very brief with his orders. 
He expected his men to be as well posted on cur- 
rent events as he was himself. But no sooner 
had Duff and Donald reached the street than the 
former inquired, in a tone of some apprehension: 

“ You don’t know, by any chance, do you, who 
this man Fielding happens to be? ” 


CHASING A DIPLOMAT 


55 


The boy looked at his companion curiously. 
“ Why, yes,” he answered; “ he’s the Commis- 
sioner to the Philippine Islands. We’ve had 
several news-stories about him, and this morning 
we printed his picture.” 

“Hmph!” muttered Duff, somewhat taken 
aback. “ The fact is, boy, that I’m just a little 
green in New York. Don’t mention it to the old 
man, but I got in only yesterday.” 

And Duff laughed as if he had worked a very 
good joke on the city editor. 

“ I’m glad you’re a wise one,” he went on. 
“ What’s this freight blockade Chapin was talk- 
ing about? ” 

Donald’s face showed some disgust as he an- 
swered: “That was in the papers this morning, 
too. Haven’t you read them, at all? ” 

“No,” Duff confessed, with a grin, “ I haven’t. 
You see, I was a little late on the job to-day, 
having been kept up last night on important pri- 
vate affairs. Some of the fellows up at the house 
where I room were having a friendly game — 
But never mind; the fact of consequence is that 
I didn’t read the papers when I got up. This 
being so, I am naturally placed in a position 
of some embarrassment on my first assignment. 


56 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


Luckily, however, I am thrown in with a mighty 
smart boy.” He put his arm in a friendly way 
on Donald’s shoulder. “ Now,” he went on, 
“ just tell me all you know about Fielding, and 
about the freight blockade. I can’t afford to 
‘ fall down ’on my first assignment. See? You’re 
the right sort of chap, and some day you’ll make 
a star reporter, sure as fate. And, say! I’ll make 
it all right with you, see if I don’t. We newspaper 
men must hang together.” 

Already Donald was sure of one thing: that 
Duff was not a good reporter, and never would 
be. Furthermore, he knew perfectly well that 
Duff’s tenure of office on the Record would be 
short. However, he offered no comment, but told 
what he knew, and, as they sped northward in 
the Subway train, Duff made a few notes on a 
pad of copy-paper. 

When they reached the lobby of the Hotel 
Astor, Duff remarked that he always got a cigar 
in his teeth before he tackled an assignment. 
“ It puts a fellow at ease,” he added, “ and es- 
tablishes confidential relations with things in 
general. Now you just wait here a minute and 
I’ll run over to the cigar counter and take on my 
ammunition. Then we’ll hunt up this celebrated 


CHASING A DIPLOMAT 


57 


diplomat of ours and read his thoughts for Cha- 
pin’s benefit. See? ” 

So Duff disappeared in the throng of men in 
the lobby, and a moment afterward, Donald, 
standing near the counter saw the diplomat 
himself crossing the room toward the door. The 
boy knew the Commissioner instantly from the 
photograph, which Chapin had sent him to get 
the day before. 

Duff was not in sight, and Donald followed his 
man to Broadway. He was leaving the hotel per- 
haps for the whole afternoon, and to locate him 
again before his departure for the West might be 
difficult. There was only one thing to do : follow. 

The Commissioner entered one taxicab; the 
boy, with a final sweep of his eyes in search of 
Duff, entered another. 

“ Keep that car in sight,” he said to the chauf- 
feur. 

The driver, however, was not accustomed to 
carrying boys on such errands. He bestowed a 
doubtful scrutiny on the lad and demanded 
gruffly: 

“ Where’s your money? ” 

Donald flushed. Then he searched his pockets 
and produced a couple of dollars in small coins. 


58 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


“ Do you want it now? ” he asked. 

The sight of the coins appeased the man. 

“ No,” he said, as he shut the door upon his 
young passenger, “ but that handful of cash 
won’t last long in a taxicab. If that’s all you’ve 
got, we won’t go far.” 

And they didn’t. Luckily, the diplomat’s 
car had not far to go. It moved eastward in 
Forty-second Street, turned into Fifth Avenue, 
and paused presently before a big structure on 
the corner. Here the Commissioner emerged and 
entered the building. 

With some indignation, Donald paid the chauf- 
feur the price he demanded, and, with only a few 
dimes and nickels remaining in his pocket, re- 
turned to the hotel afoot, running the whole 
distance. Arriving very much out of breath, he 
found Duff in one of the easy lobby chairs, with 
one leg cocked over the heavy leather arm, as 
he smoked in apparent complacence. 

“ Don,” he observed, as the boy stood panting 
before him, “you’re a regular genius. Oh, I 
know all about it. The door-man told me how you 
trailed Chapin’s Philippine statesman, so I just 
sat down here to enjoy myself until I heard 
from you. I knew you’d keep him in sight 


CHASING A DIPLOMAT 


59 


and — Say! he didn’t get away from you, did 
he? ” 

“No,” said Donald, “ but the taxicab driver 
got my two dollars. The Commissioner is over 
at the Union League Club, and — What’ll I do 
about that taxicab fare? Shall I charge it up to 
the Record? ” 

Duff appeared thoughtful as he removed his 
leg from the arm of the chair and slowly arose. 

“ N-no,” he said, reflecting, no doubt, that 
such a charge might elicit an explanation not to 
his credit. “ No, we’d better not charge it up, 
Don. Just leave it to me. I ’ll work it into my 
expense account somehow; trust me for that.” 

The boy felt the blood tingling in his veins. 
This man Duff was not only incompetent and 
lazy, but dishonest. Something like scorn showed 
itself in the lad’s eyes as he looked the other in 
the face. 

“ I’d rather not have it charged that way,” 
he said. “ I’d rather pay it myself. Mr. Chapin 
is very particular about things of that sort. I 
don’t think he’d object to the two dollars, but he 
wants everything itemized correctly. Besides, 
it wouldn’t be right — ” 

The boy stopped, with a flush on his face, and 


60 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


looked down at the tiled floor. Duff’s face wore 
a curious mixture of surprise and sagacity. He 
eyed Donald sharply for a moment, and then he 
put his hand in his trousers pocket, as if con- 
templating immediate settlement. But when the 
hand emerged it had nothing in it. 

“ You’re right,” he observed sagely. “ You’re 
a good boy, and I’m proud of you. I’m glad to 
know that the Record is particular in regard to 
such things; I’m particular myself, and of course 
I was merely jesting when I remarked that I 
would — By the way, I’m a little short of ready 
cash to-day, so if you can accommodate me with 
the money until to-morrow I’ll be obliged. Then 
I’ll settle, and put the item in my expense account 
at the end of the week. Oh, I’ll put it in fair and 
square, of course. Now come along and show me 
where this Union League Club is to be found. 
Weil get hold of the diplomat yet, and make him 
talk for Chapin until he’s black in the face. I 
say, Don, it’s a trifle awkward not knowing the 
town, but I’ll make it square with you; trust me 
for that.” 

They did get hold of the diplomat, and Duff 
did make him talk. In some phases of his work 
he was quite capable. The interview pleased 


CHASING A DIPLOMAT 


61 


Chapin, and, for the time being, Duff was 
secure. 

As to his own part in the affair, Donald was 
silent, notwithstanding the fact that Duff forgot 
the two dollars the next day, and the next, and 
the next. And before he got around to a settle- 
ment another and more exciting adventure oc- 
curred in which both Duff and Donald figured 
again. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE MAN - OF - WAR 

TT1HE thing happened late at night. Chapin 
had gone home and Mr. Worth was in 
charge of the city room. Chapin did go home 
sometimes, though more often he remained at 
his desk until after the mail edition was closed 
and the great presses in the basement were 
thundering with the music of a distant Niagara — 
up on the thirteenth floor it did sound like Ni- 
agara. But he had gone home now, and it was not 
yet midnight. 

Worth came out of his den and stood for a 
minute scanning the local room, in which the usual 
group of reporters were pounding the typewriters. 
Higgins, of course, was stripped to his shirt and 
trousers, despite the fact that the mercury out- 
side stood near zero. Inside, it was always hot 
and stuffy, and the steam in the radiators was 
singing its customary refrain of clicks and rattles, 
as if trying to drown out the clatter of the type- 
writers and the intermittent hiss of the big arc 


THE MAN-OF-WAR 


63 


light overhead. The smoke from half a dozen 
pipes was thick, and Worth, who did not smoke, 
ordered Felix to open a window, at which Hen- 
derson, the dandy, turned up his collar, shrugged 
his shoulders, and shivered. 

While Felix was engaged with a long pole in 
pulling down the window nearest to Henderson’s 
desk — Felix and Henderson were not boon 
companions — Worth turned to Donald. 

“ I want you to go up to the Plaza,” he said, 
“ and find Duff. He’s covering the Emerson 
banquet. Tell him to take a cab and hustle 
over to the North River and board the battle-ship 
Oregon. The telegraph room has a despatch from 
Washington saying that the Oregon has received 
hurry-up orders to sail for Peru to guard Ameri- 
can interests in the mix-up down there. She’ll 
sail to-night, and I want Duff to see the captain 
and get a yarn out of him. It isn’t likely he’ll 
talk about his errand, but at least Duff can pick 
up a good lively story about the preparations on 
shipboard; he can use his eyes and give us three- 
quarters of a column of picturesque local color. 
We have enough on the banquet, anyway, and he 
can drop it. But the Oregon may sail any minute, 
and if he’s to get a story he’ll have to be quick. 


64 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 

Tell him to hustle back to the office as soon as he 
can.” 

And then, as Donald was drawing on his over- 
coat, Worth added: 

“ After you’ve seen Duff, you might as well go 
along home.” 

A comfortable sense of importance filled the 
boy as he rode northward on the Third Avenue 
elevated. True, his actual part in these affairs 
was inconspicuous, but, as he liked to reason, 
he was a link of some consequence, after all. A 
failure on his part might mean a failure of the 
whole, and it was pleasant to reflect that Chapin 
and Worth were trusting him more and more. 
The only distasteful thing about this night’s 
errand was its connection with Duff, whom the 
boy had come to distrust and dislike. 

The icy breath of the wind smote him sharply 
as he left the car at Fifty-ninth Street and made 
his way to his destination. A snowstorm the 
day previous had blockaded the streets, and at 
first the only vehicles in sight were the carts of 
the shovelers as they hauled away the snow. 
But, as he neared the great, luxurious Plaza 
Hotel, many automobiles and carriages lined the 
curbs, and chauffeurs and coachmen were swinging 


THE MAN-OF-WAR 


65 


their arms and stamping their feet to keep 
warm. 

And then, a moment later, he was inside. The 
fragrance of flowers and perfumery almost weighed 
him down, coming, as he had, from the keen 
freshness outside. For a moment he paused to 
view the brilliance that surrounded him. It was 
one of those glimpses of wonder-land that had 
flashed upon him at times since his employment 
on the Record. The great lobby, with its gold 
decorations and lavish furnishings, must be quite 
as regal, he thought, as the palaces of royalty. 
He could not quite accustom himself to this 
turning of night into day. And now, as he went 
along on his errand, he caught sight of dining- 
rooms filled with men and women in evening- 
dress, and of parlors that were by no means 
empty, though it was midnight. 

Presently, when he had gone up in a mirror- 
lined elevator trimmed with massive bronze, 
he found himself in a great banquet-hall that 
seemed to stretch away into fairy-land. Some one 
pointed out the press table, and, after making his 
way in some embarrassment between rows of 
tables at which sat platoons and regiments of 
guests, he stood at last before his fellow-worker, 


66 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


Duff, who, except for his rather pudgy figure, 
looked quite distinguished in his swallow-tail 
and expansive shirt-bosom. 

But Duff was not glad to see him, nor was he 
glad to get Worth’s orders. 

“ Of course I might have expected it,” he 
growled, as he gathered up his papers. 44 A fellow 
never gets a decent assignment without being 
called off and handed a 4 package ’ like this. Why 
couldn’t Worth let me stay here and finish the 
thing? The champagne isn’t half gone yet. Drat 
the luck! I’ve a good mind not to go.” 

44 There wasn’t anybody else to send,” said 
Donald, noticing that Duff’s glass was quite empty, 
while many of the glasses about him had been 
untouched. 44 There’s a fire over in Brooklyn, 
and four men had to go. You’re lucky you didn’t 
get that.” 

Duff shrugged his shoulders. 44 Oh, I’m quite 
likely to get a hand at it yet,” he observed, as 
he reached under his chair for his silk hat. 44 1 
usually do get a fire when I’m togged up like this. 
Out in Chicago one night I rented a brand-new 
dress-suit for the purpose of making myself 
presentable at the President’s dinner, but before 
I got out of the office along came a four-eleven 


THE MAN-OF-WAR 


67 


alarm at the Stock Yards. Of course the old man 
caught me. What did he care for my broadcloth? 
I got back at two-forty in the morning, soaked to 
the hide, one sleeve half off, and — ” 

44 That’s why Duff left Chicago,” suggested 
another guest at the press table. 44 That dress- 
suit Shylock, no doubt, has been looking for him 
ever since.” 

44 No,” retorted Duff, 44 your statistics are 
wrong. You see — Ha! there comes the cham- 
pagne again. This way, waiter! ” He beckoned 
with an imperative gesture. 44 This way! ” 

“ Mr. Worth wants you to hurry,” admonished 
Donald. 44 The Oregon, you know, is likely to 
sail at any minute.” 

Duff put down his hat. 

4 4 The Oregon,” he observed, 44 can sail as soon 
as she pleases. If she sails before I get there, I 
am saved the disagreeable duty of extracting a 
very foolish yarn from her quarter-deck. Here’s 
to the Oregon! May she sail before I arrive.” 
And, with this disloyal toast, Duff quaffed his 
beverage with much satisfaction. 

Donald felt the hot blood of resentment. In 
his viewpoint, loyalty to his newspaper was the 
first instinct. All the men, from Ordway down, 


68 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


were true blue — except Duff. Even the dandy 
Henderson, on occasion, would sacrifice his rest, 
his sleep, and his every pleasure, for the Record. 
Every member of the staff stood ready to spring 
into a breach on an instant’s notice; every one 
of them would fight like a demon for “ the old 
man ” if the necessity arose. It was very evident 
that Duff was not built of Record stuff. To 
Donald, Ordway was one extreme of manhood, 
Duff the other. Between the two were many 
grades, even on the Record, but Duff was vastly 
beneath even the lowest level that boasted con- 
nection with that journal. So Donald told himself. 

But Duff was at last ready to go, and Donald 
followed him out of the banquet-hall. 

“ Now,” said he, as they entered the elevator, 
“ kindly inform me where I am to find this dis- 
agreeable battle-ship Oregon. Worth, I assume, 
takes me for an authority on naval affairs. I am 
tempted very much to tell him to go find the 
ship himself.” 

“We had half a column about the war-ships 
this morning,” returned Donald, in disgust. 
“ They’re anchored in the Hudson, near Seventy- 
ninth Street.” 

“ I’m glad they’re not any further away,” 


THE MAN-OF-WAR 


69 


said Duff, “ though I hoped they might be an- 
chored at some convenient spot on land.” He 
lit a cigarette. “ It’s rather inconvenient to have 
them out in the Hudson. Does Worth expect me 
to swim out to the Oregon? ” 

“ I think you’ll get a boat without any trouble,” 
answered Donald, laughing a little in spite of 
himself, for Duff at times could be droll. “ Hill- 
son was aboard one of the ships yesterday; I heard 
him say he got a boat at Seventy-ninth Street.” 

And then an impulse seized the boy and for 
the moment he quite forgot his dislike for Duff. 
For most boys a battle-ship, especially a battle- 
ship at night, would have attractions. 

“ I’m off duty, Mr. Duff,” he said; “ would you 
object to my going along? ” 

“No,” said Duff; “ not in the least. You can 
hang on to me, and if you see me listing to star- 
board, you can tell me so. See? It’s a bad night 
for a bath in the Hudson. Now that you mention 
it, your going along is a fine idea.” 

At the moment, Donald did not catch the sig- 
nificance of Duff’s observation, and a minute later 
they were in a taxicab bound for the water-front. 

“ That item of two dollars,” remarked Duff, 
as he dropped his cigarette on the floor and got 


70 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


out another, “is to be settled on pay-day; on pay- 
day, my boy. Did you think I’d forgotten it? ” 
“No,” returned Donald, and he spoke the truth. 
“ You see,” the other went on, as he struck a 
match, “ I didn’t hit New York with a bulging 
pocket. We tourist newspaper men are some- 
times — at rare intervals, of course — short of 
ready cash. You’re not short, are you? ” 

“ I can get along until pay-day,” said the boy 
doubtfully. “ I’m sorry you’re short.” 

“ Thanks; I’m glad you’ve got money. Now 
what I was going to say was this: suppose you 
add a dollar to what I already owe you; then I’ll 
owe you three dollars. See? On pay-day, I 
shall hand you four big, round, silver dollars. 
The extra dollar will be for interest. For loaning 
me three dollars, you earn a dollar, clear and 
above-board. Are you on? ” 

Donald was embarrassed. He had a few dol- 
lars in his pocket, but he could ill afford to turn 
any part of his assets over to Duff, who had 
clearly established his lack of standing and credit. 
However, it seemed a small thing to refuse, and 
after a moment’s silence he thrust his hand down 
in his pocket and produced the dollar. 

“ But I don’t want the extra dollar for interest,” 


THE MAN-OF-WAR 


71 


he protested. 4 4 1 don’t want any interest at all. 
If you’ll just pay me the principal, Mr. Duff, 
I’ll be satisfied.” 

44 Bless you! ” said Duff, with some evidence of 
feeling. 44 Bless you, kid, you’re the best yet! 
I shall insist on returning four dollars, and, in 
addition, I shall buy you the best dinner I can 
get in New York.” 

Whereupon Duff put an arm about Donald’s 
shoulders and leaned rather heavily against him, 
and the odor of cigarettes and wine was unpleas- 
antly heavy. The boy now regretted that he had 
come on this mission. 

However, they were soon at the dock, and, after 
a short search among the shadowy structures that 
lined the river, Donald found the boathouse, 
Duff meanwhile sitting on a convenient box, 
smoking. In response to the boy’s knocks, the 
boatman finally opened the door and agreed, for 
the sum of two dollars, to take them out to the 
Oregon. Duff, coming up at the moment, whis- 
pered in Donald’s ear, and once more the boy’s 
hand went to his pocket. 

44 That’ll make six,” said Duff pleasantly. 
44 You’re the right sort, Don, my boy; you’re 
all right.” 


72 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY -BOY 


There was no help for it. The boy suppressed 
the words that came to his lips, and followed the 
boatman down a ladder to a rowboat that was 
moored in a slip. The rungs were slippery and 
treacherous, and the lad shuddered as he looked 
down into the black water that swirled against 
the piling. A misstep would have meant a plunge 
to almost certain death. However, he gained the 
boat safely, and Duff came along after him, utter- 
ing disrespectful opinions of Chapin, Worth, and 
the battle-ship Oregon. 

“ Careful, there! ” warned the boatman, steady- 
ing the little craft against the piles as Duff de- 
scended, with some rashness, upon it. “ Steady, 
sir ! I might have trouble fishin’ you out to-night, 
man. Hold up a minute till I get her ’round a 
bit! Wait — ” 

But Duff, who was not in a mood to takemdvice, 
came down into the boat at that moment with a 
thud. Luckily, he struck in the middle and, 
sitting down violently on one of the seats, merely 
tipped backward upon the bottom. His silk hat, 
however, jumped overboard and was instantly 
swallowed ffp by the darkness. 

The boat rocked alarmingly, and Donald, 
clinging to the gunwale, felt a dash of ice-water 


THE MAN-OF-WAR 


73 


through his gloves. But the boatman, with some 
forceful remarks not complimentary to Duff, 
steadied the frail little craft and then turned to 
help his passenger out of his awkward position. 
But Duff declared that he preferred to remain on 
the bottom, where there would be no danger of 
tipping into the river, and remarked that if only 
he had a pillow he would take a nice little snooze 
on the way out. Would somebody, he asked, 
kindly hand him his eight-dollar silk hat? 

The boatman made some sarcastic comment, but 
Donald, filled with apprehension, was silent. For 
the first time he perceived that the champagne 
had gone to Duff’s head. With mortification, the 
boy wished himself well out of the scrape. 

It was too late, however, and soon they were 
out upon the black expanse of the Hudson, with 
the bitter north wind sweeping full upon them. 
The swish of the water against the boat seemed 
quite terrifying, and the ghostly ice-cakes that 
skidded silently past them filled him with sudden 
panic. Then one of them came crashing against 
the boat, amidships, and for a minute he thought 
they were sinking. 

But they went along undamaged, and the quiet 
assurance of the oarsman gave the boy confidence. 


74 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


In the distance was a huge, shadowy hulk upon 
which lights were twinkling, and from which, 
against the starlight, he could see a black funnel 
of smoke arising. And, as they drew nearer, he 
heard the incisive voices of the officers, giving 
their orders. With a sinking heart, he thought 
of Duff. 

“ She’s ’most ready to sail,” said the boatman, 
looking over his shoulder at the mighty object 
that now loomed close ahead of them out of the 
water. “ She’ll be well out toward the ocean by 
daylight.” 

He bent himself again to the oars and pulled 
lustily. Many lights were now visible on the man- 
of-war. On shore, up and down the river, were 
more lights. Far down toward the Battery a 
brilliant spot on the water indicated a ferry-boat. 
The scene was one of mysterious fascination for 
Donald, yet he shuddered with a sense of impend- 
ing disaster. Looking back of him in the boat he 
saw the dim, huddled figure of Duff, lying motion- 
less in the bottom. 

Then a challenge startled the boy suddenly, 
as they came within hailing distance, and, lean- 
ing over, he slapped Duff sharply on the leg. 
No answer. 


THE MAN-OF-WAR 


75 


“They’re calling to us!” he said, punching 
his companion with some violence. “ Wake up; 
they’re calling to us from the ship.” 

But what did Duff care? Even without the 
pillow, he was having the peaceful snooze of which 
he had spoken. 

Again came the challenge, louder and more 
imperative. Donald could now see the forms of 
the sailors as they scurried about the decks, and 
a thousand lights seemed to flash simultaneously. 
In despair he reached over and pinched Duff 
viciously, with no result but a feeble kick and a 
grunt. 

“Answer ’em!” commanded the boatman, 
excitedly. “ Do you want them sailor devils to 
shoot us? ” 

So Donald, raising his voice, called out, with 
as much authority as he could summon: 

“ We’re newspaper men; we want to see the 
Captain.” 

What the answer was, he couldn’t tell, but the 
next minute the boat swung around against the 
iron rail of a sea-ladder, and he saw the figures 
of two sailors come running down to help them. 

“ Duff, O, Duff! Wake up; we’re here at the 
Oregon! Quick, Duff, we’re here! ” 


76 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


Donald was down on his hands and knees upon 
the prostrate form in the boat, shaking it roughly. 

“ Duff! ” The boy’s tones were almost frantic. 
“ Come, Duff, what’ll we do? We’re at the Ore- 
gon, I say. Wake up! ” 

Duff stirred, moaned, and was still again. 
The hopelessness of the situation was dawning 
upon the boy. Once more he shook the man, and 
then, giving up the vain attempt to arouse him, 
he arose and stepped out upon the ship’s ladder. 
With fast-beating heart he made his way to the 
deck. 

“ If you please,” he said, to the officer who 
confronted him, “I’d like to see the Captain. 
I’m from the Record, sir.” 

For a moment, the other regarded him with 
evident curiosity; for a newspaper man he was 
quite out of the ordinary, in size, voice, and general 
make-up. But the light on deck was dim, and the 
officer merely said to him: “ Very well; come with 
me.” 

The boy had never been on a war-ship before; 
he had only a confused sense of big guns, of 
steel-lined passageways, and, it seemed to him, 
of hundreds of scurrying figures and twinkling 
lanterns. And then, after a knock, he stood in the 


THE MAN-OF-WAR 


77 


Captain’s quarters, confronting a large, command- 
ing man who was writing at a desk. 

“ A Record man, sir,” said the officer who had 
guided him. 4 4 A Record man who wishes to see 
you.” 

Donald took off his cap, and the chief officer 
of the ship leaned back and regarded him in some 
astonishment. 

44 Well,” he asked, 44 what can I do for you? ” 

For a moment Donald’s embarrassment seemed 
to choke him. Then he threw it off. He was a 
boy ready of speech ordinarily, and now, with a 
flushed face, he told his story directly and simply. 

44 Mr. Duff,” he said , 44 went to sleep in the boat. 
He’s the Record man who was sent here. I was 
off duty, sir, and I came along to see the ship. 
When we got here, I couldn’t waken him. But if 
you will tell me something about the — the prepa- 
rations for sailing, sir, I can take the facts back 
to the office and somebody will write the story, 
you see.” 

The Captain’s face relaxed in a smile. 

44 Your Mr. Duff,” he observed, 44 would be an 
unsafe man in the Navy. As for you, young gen- 
tleman, you deserve commendation. I should 
like to see you, some day, in the service. Lieu- 


78 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


tenant,” he added, addressing the officer who had 
come with the boy, “ you will show this young man 
about the ship and explain to him what he sees. 
Wait — When the boy goes ashore you had better 
send along a boat with some men, to help this 
fellow Duff to land.” 

With shame for the disgrace of his companion 
and pride in the Captain’s compliment, Donald 
bowed and followed his guide. 


CHAPTER VII 


FORGETTING DUFF 

riTHE taxicab drew up with a swoop in front 
of the Record Building, and from it emerged 
Donald Kirk. Park Row was brilliant with 
electricity, and the light, as it fell upon the boy, 
showed a face flushed with excitement. It also 
showed, as the taxicab door was opened, the 
slouching figure of Duff, still asleep. 

“ What’ll I do with’ im? ” asked the chauffeur, 
as the boy shut the door with a bang. “ Where 
does he live? I can’t cart ’im ’round in the car 
all night, can I? ” 

The contempt on the lad’s face showed very 
plainly his sentiments toward Duff. 

“ Do whatever you like with him,” he answered 
shortly. “ I don’t know where he lives, and I 
don’t care. I’m through with him for good, I 
hope, and I’m sure the Record won’t need him 
again. Chuck him away in the garage till morn- 
ing, where he won’t freeze. Good night.” 

As he passed through the lobby to the elevator, 


80 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


the roar of the presses below came up to him with 
its rumble of thunder. The mail edition had 
already gone down, and the clock on the wall 
indicated a quarter past one. There was still 
ample time for the last edition, however, and, 
as the boy waited for the elevator, his heart swelled 
with triumph over his accomplishment. He won- 
dered what sort of work he might make at writing 
the story in case there should be no one convenient 
to take it. The mere possibility of such a contin- 
gency frightened him. A sad mess it would be, 
he knew very well. 

As he waited impatiently, his eyes fell on a 
cluster of newsboys asleep on the tiled floor, 
huddled close to a radiator. Ragged, dirty little 
imps they were, products of the East Side. 
They were better off here on the floor, perhaps, 
than at home in their miserable tenements, yet 
Donald watched them with deep compassion. 
After all, he reflected, he himself was not far re- 
moved from them — just a little higher up in 
the scale. But he was climbing; yes, he was sure 
of it. Slowly he was gaining a foothold on the 
lower rungs of the ladder, and some day he would 
show New York what there was in him. Then he 
sighed heavily. The thing he lacked, the thing 


FORGETTING DUFF 


81 


he must have, was education. Ah! that was the 
golden key that would unlock for him the door 
to the fairy-land of success. But how? 

The elevator took him softly and swiftly up 
to the city room. Two of the men had just come 
in from the Brooklyn fire, and Felix was helping 
them off with their ice-stiffened coats. Higgins 
was still at his typewriter, and Ordway was light- 
ing his pipe, having just finished his night’s batch 
of copy. Otherwise the room was empty. The 
day’s grist of news had been pretty well rounded 
up, and, unless some unexpected event should 
transpire, the city room would have a lull until 
the next afternoon. Most of the reporters had 
gone home. 

Passing through the city room, Donald stood 
before Mr. Worth’s desk. Beyond, from the tele- 
graph room, came the nervous click of many 
instruments. At the left, in the dramatic editor’s 
cubby-hole, that important personage was busy 
with his late review of the night’s theatricals. 
The Record’s tension was letting up a little, true, 
but many men were yet in the harness, and 
the lines might be drawn tight again at any 
instant. 

Mr. Worth had just dispatched the last of Ord- 


82 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


way’s story to the copy-desk, when he looked up 
and saw Donald before him. 

“ How’s this? ” he asked. “ I thought you 
went home? Where’s Duff? He ought to have 
been in before this with that Oregon story.” 

Something in the boy’s face told more than his 
words. 

“ Mr. Duff — was sick, sir. I got the Oregon 
story myself.” 

Worth regarded the boy sharply. “ What? ” 
he demanded. 

“ Mr. Duff,” Donald repeated, “ was sick. I 
left him in the boat and went aboard the Oregon 
myself.” 

A gleam of anger flashed in the night city edi- 
tor’s eyes. Worth was quick and sharp at 
times, and lacked the cool poise that marked 
Chapin. 

“You mean,” he said, and his words cut the 
boy to the quick, “ that Duff had too much cham- 
pagne. You mean that he was intoxicated, don’t 
you? ” 

Donald’s silence was equivalent to assent, 
though he could not bring himself to the plane 
of an informer. He knew that Duff would never 
again receive an assignment from the Record, but 


FORGETTING DUFF 


83 


he preferred to let Worth draw his own infer- 
ences as to what had transpired. 

“ Why don’t you answer? ” asked the latter, 
somewhat louder than necessary. “ Do you 
wish to shield Duff? Don’t you know that we 
allow no equivocation on this newspaper? ” 

Back of Donald stood Felix, who had come to 
the door to see what the trouble was over. Two 
of the copy-readers, also, had come out and were 
looking on. Donald’s face was furiously red 
and his lips trembled at this unexpected re- 
ception. 

“ Mr. Duff was unable to go aboard the Oregon,” 
he said simply, “ so I went myself. I’ve got all 
the facts, but I — I’m afraid I can’t write 
them.” 

From Felix came a long, incredulous whistle, 
and Donald turned just in time to catch a grimace, 
signifying much that was unpleasant and malig- 
nant. 

“ Afraid he can’t write them! ” Felix sniffed, 
unable to suppress his evil sarcasm. “ Oh, my 
eye! ” 

“ Felix,” said Worth sternly, “ you get out 
of here, quick! Now,” he went on, addressing 
Donald again, “ where is Duff? ” 


84 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY -BOY 


“ The chauffeur took him to the garage, sir; 
he — he was asleep.” 

Worth tossed his pencil on his desk impatiently. 

“ See here,” he said roughly, “ if there’s one 
thing in this office I won’t stand for, it’s shield- 
ing drunkenness on the staff. You know, I pre- 
sume, how strict our rules are on the subject of 
over-indulgence in liquor. Do you think for an 
instant, boy, that you can get Duff out of this 
scrape? ” 

“ No,” said Donald, rather weakly; “ I don’t 
want to get him out of it, sir. But, you see, Mr. 
Worth — ” He paused, not finding just the words 
to convey his point of view on the subject. 

“ No, I don’t see,” retorted Worth. “ You 
haven’t told me the truth, and in beating about 
the bush you simply ally yourself with this fellow 
Duff. I never trusted him from the first, and I 
couldn’t just see how he fooled Chapin into taking 
him on. Now of course if yoq prefer to side with 
your friend, against the newspaper, why — ” 

Worth paused, for the big form of Ordway had 
suddenly come between him and the shrinking 
boy. 

“ Oh, come, Worth! ” he said, in a conciliatory 
but disparaging tone. “ Oh, come! what’s the 


FORGETTING DUFF 


85 


use? Can’t you see that the boy has done a 
great piece of work? He doesn’t want to tattle 
on Duff; you wouldn’t like to do it yourself if 
you were he. He told you enough, didn’t he? 
You’re a good guesser. Who cares what happened 
to Duff? He’s no more Don’s friend than he is 
yours. Why not let the boy down easy and give 
him credit for what he has done? ” 

Worth colored a little, and for a moment some- 
thing like resentment showed in his face at this 
interference. Technically, Worth was Ordway’s 
superior. He had the right to give orders, and it 
was Ordway’s place to obey. In reality, however, 
the latter ranked Worth in everything except 
executive authority. In ability, in salary, in 
actual working value to the newspaper, Ordway 
stood the higher, and Worth knew it. Moreover, 
Worth was at heart a just man, and, suppressing 
the first impulse of anger over the other’s cham- 
pionship of the lad, he said: 

“ I didn’t mean to belittle what the boy did, 
Ordway; not at all. I wouldn’t want any good 
piece of work for the Record to go unrecognized. 
And as for Duff, perhaps you’re right; he’s only 
an incident in this office now, and I’m willing to 
forget him. Suppose, Ordway, that you take 


86 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


Donald’s story and get it out as fast as you can. 
Half a column — or two-thirds at the outside.” 

The look of gratitude Donald bestowed on his 
friend was thanks enough; at any rate, it was all 
the boy had a chance at the moment to bestow. He 
followed Ordway to the latter’s desk, brushing 
against Felix, who had been peeking in at the 
door, without even seeing him. Had he taken 
the trouble to look, he might have observed that 
Felix’s face wore a very sinister scowl. The work- 
ings of Felix’s mind just then would have been 
interesting, and might have saved a vast amount 
of future trouble, if by some magic Donald could 
have read them. 

Hurriedly, the boy went over the facts, telling 
Ordway how the great battle-ship was making 
ready for its hasty flight to Peru. So deftly 
did he picture the scene he had witnessed, and so 
apt were the quotations he used and the nautical 
expressions he had heard, that Ordway smiled 
as he set down his notes and remarked that 
it was really fortunate Duff had resigned so oblig- 
ingly. 

And then he opened his typewriter desk once 
more, and for half an hour his fingers sped over 
the keys as he put into readable shape the narra- 


FORGETTING DUFF 


87 


tive Donald had brought. Each page, as it was 
finished, the boy took to Worth, who, after ma- 
king a blue-pencil notation upon it, passed it 
along to the copy-desk. The copy-readers al- 
tered scarcely a word. When Ord way’s work 
came to their hands they knew it required little 
editing. Before the last page of the manuscript 
had left the hands of the night city editor, most 
of the story was in type in the composing-room 
on the floor above. 

Then, when Ordway was closing his desk, 
Donald made a request. 

“ Mr. Ordway,” he said, “ if you don’t object, 
I’d like to use your machine for a while.” 

“ Why, Don!” said his friend reprovingly. 
“ Don’t you know it’s time you were in bed? 
You don’t mean to practice to-night? ” 

“ I’m going to wait for the last edition,” Don- 
ald explained. “I — I mean to read that story 
before I go home. And while I’m waiting, Mr. 
Ordway, I’m going to write one myself, just as 
if I’d come in with that battle-ship yarn and Mr. 
Worth had really told me to write it. Then 
when the last edition comes up, I’m going to 
compare your story with mine. I’m going to see 
how I might have improved my own.” 


88 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


“ All right,” laughed Ordway; “ go ahead.” 
Then he leaned over and said, in a low voice: 

“ Don’t mind what Worth said to you, Don; 
you’re the right sort, and he knows it. Worth’s 
a good man, but sometimes he loses his head over 
trifles. He’ll apologize, or I’m much mistaken.” 

And Ordway was right. Later, while Donald 
was laboriously grinding out his battle-ship story 
and the city room was quite deserted save for 
himself and a lonely police reporter. Worth came 
in. Crossing over to Donald, he said, in kindly 
tones : 

“We’ll forget about Duff; he’s not worth re- 
membering. It was a good piece of work you did, 
and Chapin will appreciate it, you may be sure. 
Let’s forget Duff, and all that I said.” 

Donald looked up with a smile. “ Yes, sir,” 
he said; “ I’ll be very glad to forget it.” 

But unhappily Duff was not so easily forgotten. 
Although he never showed up for duty at the 
Record again, he was destined to play a part in 
subsequent events of an exciting and most dis- 
tressing nature. 


CHAPTER VIII 


A NEW ENEMY 

“ T~\ONALD,” said Chapin, one March after- 
noon, “ Ordway has just ’phoned in that 
he’s landed a yarn we’ve been working on for 
three months. He’s arranged for a set of photo- 
graphs, and I wish you to go out to this address ” 
— he handed the boy a slip of paper — “ and get 
them. I want to caution you to use extraordinary 
care in handling these pictures, for they are the 
only set in existence, and could not be repro- 
duced. Don’t lay them down for a moment.” 

“ I’ll take care of them, sir,” said Donald. 

“ Very well,” returned Chapin; “ be sure that 
you do.” 

Felix Grompe was not far distant when this 
task was assigned to his rival, and Felix had a 
habit of seeing and hearing pretty much every- 
thing that went on in the city room. There was a 
glitter in his eyes as he took his seat on the copy- 
bench, after Donald had gone on his mission. 

“ What’s the matter? ” asked George Waters, 


90 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


seeing that something out of the ordinary was 
on Felix’s mind. “ Has Kirk got another re- 
ward? ” 

“ Sh-h! ” whispered Felix. “ No, he ain’t got 
no more rewards since that Oregon mix-up with 
Duff, and what’s more, he ain’t likely to get 
no rewards for one while. Say, George, I’m goin’ 
to fix Kirk to-day. Are you with me? If you 
ain’t, I’ll fix you, too.” 

“ Sure, I’m with you,” protested the weak, 
vacillating George. “ I’m always with you, 
Felix — at least, when you treat me square. 
What’s the game? You’ve bragged a whole lot 
about what you intended to do, Felix, but Kirk 
has went right along skimmin’ the cream. I 
don’t take no stock any more in your games. 
I don’t believe you can 4 get ’ Kirk if you try.” 

Felix’s upper lip curled in scorn. 

“ You wait,” he said. “ I ain’t never had the 
chance I’ve got now. If I don’t fix Kirk inside 
o’ two hours, then my name ain’t Grompe, and 
never will be no more.” 

“ Get out! ” returned the doubting George; 
“ I’ve heard that sort o’ talk before. What’s 
the game, I say? ” 

“ Don’t talk so loud,” warned Felix, for just 


A NEW ENEMY 


91 


then there was a temporary lull in the clatter of 
typewriters and George’s voice came out un- 
pleasantly clear. 44 Don’t blab it all over the city 
room, you little fool! I’m sorry I told you, at all.” 

44 You ain’t told me,” retorted George, 44 and 
I don’t care whether you do or not. If you 
get into trouble, then I won’t be in it, too.” 

44 Oh, yes, you will,” said Felix, with a ma- 
licious grin; 44 do you think I’d let you slip out, 
after all you’ve done to hurt Kirk? Whatever I 
do, you’re in as deep as I am, and don’t you for- 
get it. I’ll see to that.” 

44 Well,” said George, accepting the situation 
with meditative resignation, 44 what’s the game? ” 

Felix put his hand to his mouth and spoke with 
caution. 

“ You know Peter Dorian,” he said. 

44 Yes, of course,” assented George; 44 what 
about him? ” 

44 He’s the fellow who got fired from the copy- 
bench the day Chapin hired Kirk. Remember? ” 

44 Of course, but what’s the game? ” 

44 Peter is sore at Kirk,” explained Felix craftily. 
44 He’s a big fellow, too. See? He’s been waitin’ 
to lick Kirk all winter.” 

44 Well? ” George’s tone was inquisitive and 


92 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


impatient. “ Come along with it, Felix! Sup- 
pose he is sore? He can’t get Kirk’s job back 
again, can he? Even if you fix up a fight, what 
good will it do? ” 

Felix held his guarded mouth closer to his 
friend’s ear and said something to him in very 
low tones. For a few minutes the two boys 
whispered back and forth, and George’s weak 
eyes squinted very thoughtfully. Being less de- 
praved at heart than his companion, the thing 
Felix proposed had some disadvantages, chief of 
which was the danger of detection. George was 
a moral and physical coward. If he had not been, 
Felix could not have held him in such complete 
subjection. He was willing enough to injure 
Donald, but he disliked running any risk 
himself. 

“ What’s the matter with you? ” Felix de- 
manded. “ Afraid? ” 

“ No,” asserted George, his eyes wavering, 
“ but suppose Pete should get caught? He’d 
squeal on us, wouldn’t he? ” 

“ Bah! ” said Felix. “ You ain’t got no more 
nerve than a rabbit. Kirk don’t know Peter; 
he ain’t never seen him. But Peter knows Kirk, 
and that’s the best of it.” 


A NEW ENEMY 


93 


44 Anyhow, he might get caught,” insisted 
George, dubiously. 44 Suppose he should? ” 

44 He won’t,” assured Felix. 44 It’ll be dark 
before Kirk gets back, for he’s gone up to Tre- 
mont. It’ll be six o’clock, anyway, and Peter 
quits work at five- thirty. As soon as the old 
man gives you an excuse to get out, just slip 
over to the shop where Peter works — it ain’t 
but three blocks down on Gold Street, you 
know — and put ’im next to the game. Tell 
him — ” 

44 Me? ” demanded George, in alarm. 

44 Of course!” Felix was emphatic. 44 Why not? 
Ain’t you willin’ to do anything at all except 
to listen? ” 

44 Yes,” said George, 44 but you know Pete bet- 
ter than I do. I’d rather you’d see him yourself.” 

At this insubordination, Felix assumed a very 
stern demeanor. 

44 George,” he said, 44 I’ve got a few things on 
you, ain’t I? Oh, haven’t I, though! Do you 
want me to tell the old man and get you fired to- 
night? ” 

44 No,” protested George, 44 of course not. 
But see here, Felix, why can’t — ” 

44 Then go over there the first minute you get,” 


94 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


Felix broke in, still with his hand at his mouth, 
“ and put Peter next to the game.” 

Not long after six o’clock that evening Donald 
left an elevated train at Franklin Square, in the 
shadows of the lofty approach to Brooklyn Bridge, 
and, descending the stairway, turned toward 
Park Row. That part of New York is, at the 
best, rather questionable. Franklin Square, once 
a center of polite society, is now hemmed in by 
repulsive tenements, great printing establish- 
ments, and mean little shops. More than once 
Donald had wondered at the curious admixture 
to be seen thereabouts, and had meditated on 
its proximity to the heart of the metropolis, 
City Hall Park. With a step, he could span the 
interval. Not that Donald had the slightest 
fear in this or in any part of New York. Day or 
night, he had gone unmolested wherever the 
Record willed him to go. 

And he had no fear now. With his precious 
bundle of photographs held tightly under his 
arm, he quickened his steps up Frankfort Street. 
He was hungry, and the little restaurant on Nas- 
sau Street, where he was in the habit of taking 
his frugal evening meal, seemed, in his imagina- 
tion, especially inviting. He wondered if he would 


A NEW ENEMY 


95 


meet Ordway there, as sometimes he did. It 
would be a pleasure to tell his friend, he re- 
flected, that the pictures were safe on Chapin’s 
desk. 

It was a dark, foggy night — one of those 
nights in early spring when the mist blows in 
from the ocean and the dampness seems to settle 
over New York like a great cloud upon a mountain. 
The electric lights wore halos, and the shadows 
of the buildings were almost black. Just beyond, 
on mighty Broadway, the home-going crowds 
were pouring in a vast army and scattering toward 
the Subway, the Hudson tubes, the elevated 
lines, and the surface cars; overhead was a con- 
tinuous roar of traffic, bearing multitudes of 
people toward Brooklyn and Long Island homes. 
But here on Frankfort Street there was no home- 
going hour, for most of the people lived in the 
wretched honeycombs of the poor. The wholesale 
establishments, printing offices, and warehouses, 
were nearly all closed for the night, and except 
for stragglers the street was quite empty. 

But there was one person near by whom Don- 
ald did not see. He was a tall, muscular youth 
of perhaps seventeen, quite a man in stature, if 
not in years. In general make-up and atmos- 


96 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


phere, he resembled Felix Grompe, and his long, 
evil face, now concealed behind a massive abut- 
ment of the bridge approach, was of Felix’s type. 
His hands were big and knotty, and discolored 
by printer’s ink, and his feet seemed to protrude 
from his tight-fitting trousers like two excres- 
cences, ugly but abnormally useful. He had been 
waiting for almost half an hour, and now, in his 
impatience and nervousness, he was almost re- 
solved to end his vigil and leave Donald to the 
further devices of his two enemies on the Record’s 
copy-bench. 

But here was his victim at last, coming along 
from the elevated station in the very manner the 
thing had been planned by the crafty and in- 
genious Felix. In this affair Felix had done him- 
self proud; he had engineered it so that his own 
part in the thing had been merely its conception 
— and who could prove that? And if successful, 
it must immeasurably injure the prestige this new 
boy had made for himself in the city room. Felix 
was not deep enough mentally to look beyond 
the mere assumption that whatever injured 
Donald would help his own cause with Chapin. 

Everything favored the conspirators. The 
whole block was empty at the moment the un- 



A fist shot out with the strength of a pugilist. Page 97 



















- 














A NEW ENEMY 


97 


suspecting boy came abreast of the little recess 
where the other youth was in hiding. With the 
Brooklyn Bridge masonry on one side and a row 
of dark warehouses on the other, Felix could not 
have selected a more propitious time and place 
in all New York. And Donald walked unwit- 
tingly into the net. 

A figure confronted him suddenly; so suddenly 
that he had no chance even to look at it. A fist 
shot out with the strength of a pugilist and sent 
him backward into the gutter. Then, as he lay 
for a moment stunned, the assailant stooped and 
picked up the bundle of photographs. With a 
twist of his wrist, he crushed the package as he 
might have wrung the neck of a serpent. Then 
he tore the mass into fragments, threw the pieces 
at the boy who lay on the ground, and ran fleetly 
under the bridge archway into Vande water Street. 

Donald gained his feet slowly. Then, getting 
down on his hands and knees, he groped half- 
blindly for his package. Piece by piece, he 
gathered up the fragments. The whole world 
seemed to stand still. Leaning against the blank 
wall behind him, when he had once more gained 
his feet, he held the tatters before his dizzy eyes 
and looked at them. Something warm and wet 


98 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


ran down his face, and he wiped it off with his 
hand. 

The shock of those torn photographs filled him 
with a maddening impulse to flee — to flee as 
far away from the Record as he could get. His 
own hurts were forgotten in this staggering dis- 
aster. The why or how of it was at the moment 
of small consequence beside the fact itself. These 
pictures — that could never be reproduced — 
were hopelessly ruined. The very property he 
had been cautioned to guard was nothing but 
wreckage. He had suffered it to be taken from 
him without resistance. 

Stuffing the remnants into his pocket, he 
walked slowly along Frankfort Street, in a daze. 
Again he felt the warm current trickling down his 
face, and again he wiped it away. He was among 
pedestrians now, but in the shadows they did not 
notice that he was smeared with blood, and he was 
out on Park Row before he realized where he was 
going. Where, indeed? Not back to the Record 
office, surely! Not there, of all places in the world. 

He crossed Park Row, and now the people 
stared at him. He entered City Hall Plaza and 
turned his steps unsteadily toward the Subway 
entrance. At the top of the stairway, however, 


A NEW ENEMY 


99 


he paused. Suddenly he turned and made straight 
for the Record Building. Some mighty impulse 
welled up within him. Yes, he would go there; he 
would not run away like a coward. The thing had 
been done; he would face it. 

Again he saw the people looking at him, but 
he pressed through them. He stalked across the 
Record lobby with forced strength, and rode up 
in the elevator without answering the questions 
of the conductor. In the city room he passed 
Felix and George, and he did not see that both were 
pale. He did not speak to them, but crossed to 
the city editor’s room and went in. Behind him 
came Felix and his co-conspirator, quaking with 
fright. 

Chapin was busy when he entered and did not 
look up. For a moment Donald stood in inde- 
cision; then, drawing the fragments of the pic- 
tures from his pockets, he put them on the desk. 
Chapin, glancing at his visitor, jumped up at 
sight of him. 

“ Mr. Chapin — ” he began, and then the 
room reeled. The floor went up where the ceiling 
ought to have been, and some one caught him as 
he staggered forward. 


CHAPTER IX 


SUSPICIONS 

riTWO theories were entertained in the Record 
■“*“ office concerning the mysterious attack upon 
Donald Kirk and the destruction of the photo- 
graphs. The first theory assumed that some- 
body vitally interested in the suppression of 
the pictures had engineered it. This, of course, 
was a very plausible theory, since the pending 
article was an expose of some very dishonest 
public officials who had long been looting the 
public treasury. Chapin and Worth accepted the 
theory without question; so did everybody else 
on the Record staff except Ordway. Ordway, 
therefore, was the only person to hold the second 
theory — and this theory he kept to himself. 

Ordway was not a man to proclaim opinions 
based on nothing more substantial than imagina- 
tion. The instinct of the trained investigator 
was strong within him. Deduction had always 
been a vital factor in his work. He worked from 


SUSPICIONS 


101 


effect back to cause as carefully and laboriously 
as the most expert professional detective. Once 
given an effect, his primal purpose was to dis- 
cover a motive. Then, link by link, he filled in 
the detail that made some of his greatest triumphs 
of newspaper work. And now he set himself 
quietly but persistently to discover the truth of 
this attack on his protege. The boy had come 
as close to him as anything could in his busy 
career. There had been something about the 
lad that appealed to him from the start, and he 
had certain plans under way that might have an 
important bearing on Donald’s life. The solution 
of the photograph mystery, then, was undertaken 
in the same spirit of quiet patience that had 
marked all his investigations. Ordway had 
much work of his own that he could not 
neglect. 

“ Don,” he said to the boy one night, a 
few days after the loss of the photographs, 
“ have you any personal enemies in New 
York? ” 

It was after midnight, and the two had chanced 
to leave the Record Building together, Donald 
to go to his home far up in the Bronx, and Ordway 
to his bachelor quarters on Madison Avenue. 


102 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


They stood for a minute on Park Row, near the 
statue of Horace Greeley, the Nestor of New 
York newspaper men. 

The question surprised the boy. 

“ Why, no,” he answered quickly; “ I haven’t 
any enemies anywhere, that I know of.” 

“ Hmph-h ! ” Ordway’s inarticulate comment 
was meditative. “ Sometimes we have enemies 
that we don’t know about,” he said. “ Suppose 
you come along with me, Don, for a cup of coffee 
before we go home. I want you to think over all 
your acquaintances in the city and see if you can, 
by any possibility, connect one of them with this 
picture affair.” 

So they found a quiet corner in an all-night 
cafe on Fulton Street, and for half an hour they 
discussed the attack. Donald’s face still showed 
the marks of the brutal blow, and ever since 
the occurrence he had been oppressed by a deep 
sense of humiliation at having fallen so easy a 
victim to the designing thug, whoever he was. 
But then, as he told Chapin and Ordway, he had 
been given no chance to fight. The assailant 
had not wanted fair play. The only thing he 
wanted was the destruction of the pictures; in 
the accomplishment of this end the thuggery had 


SUSPICIONS 


103 


been merely incidental. This opinion the boy 
now repeated. 

But Ordway drummed the table thoughtfully, 
as he sat waiting for his coffee to cool. 

“ I'm not so sure,” he said, “ that the thuggery 
was incidental. I am not so sure, either, that the 
destruction of the photographs was the principal 
end.” 

Donald looked up in quick surprise. “ Why, 
what — what do you mean? ” he asked. 

“ Nothing very tangible, Don,” answered the 
other; “ hardly tangible enough to put into 
words just at present. But there is one question 
that puzzles me: why did this rascally slugger 
tear up the photographs and throw them at you? 
If the pictures were his chief motive, why didn’t 
he carry them away with him? If he wished to 
destroy them completely as evidence, wasn’t it 
poor policy to leave even the fragments? ” 

Donald set down his cup and regarded Ordway 
with questioning eyes. 

“ What does Mr. Chapin think about it? ” he 
asked. 

A momentary frown darkened Ordway’s face. 
“ I haven’t mentioned it to Chapin,” he said. 
“ I — Well, I have reasons for keeping the ques- 


104 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


tion to myself until I can settle it more definitely. 
But I don’t mind asking you, and I want you to 
think about it. If there is any person, or any 
possible motive that you can connect with this 
affair, I want you to tell me.” 

For several minutes Donald sat with contracted 
brow, silent. 

“ There’s no one,” he said at length. “ I can’t 
think of any person, or of any reason.” 

There was something like disappointment in 
Ordway’s eyes, but he banished it a moment later. 

“ All right,” he said cheerfully; “ don’t trouble 
your brain over it further to-night. But ” — and 
Ordway leaned forward suddenly and put an un- 
usual accent on his words — “ keep your eyes and 
ears open hereafter. Perhaps we’ll get at this 
thing later on.” 

And then, while Donald’s eyes were framing a 
question, Ordway dismissed the subject by taking 
up another, even closer to the boy’s heart. 

“ I met an old acquaintance to-day,” he said, 
“ and I was talking about you to him. No, not 
about this disagreeable affair of the photographs, 
but about something very pleasant. This friend 
of mine is the principal of a ‘ prep ’ school up the 
Hudson.” 


SUSPICIONS 


105 


A quick look of pain passed over the boy’s face. 
Or d way saw it, but merely smiled. 

“ How would you like to get a scholarship up 
there? ” he asked. 

“ O, Mr. Ordway! ” Donald’s exclamation 
answered the query. His eager eyes had asked a 
score of questions at once. “ O, Mr. Ordway! 
is there any way I can do it? ” 

Ordway smiled at the lad’s excitement, but 
his own eyes showed how much he was interested. 

“ It may be a little premature for me to speak 
of the thing,” he went on, “ but since I have men- 
tioned it, I may as well say that I suggested the 
scholarship to this principal friend of mine, and 
he seemed favorably inclined. I proposed that 
he issue you a scholarship for the year beginning 
next September, to be paid for in advertising in 
the Record. Then the Record, as I suggested, 
might in turn recompense itself by using your 
services during the year as a correspondent. You 
could keep the paper informed concerning the 
athletic events and similar affairs at your school 
and at others adjacent. How would that strike 
you? ” 

“ O, Mr. Ordway ! 99 Donald repeated. It 
seemed about all he could say. 


106 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


44 When I returned to the office after this little 
talk with my friend,” Ordway went on, 44 1 dropped 
in on Mr. Daggett ” — Daggett was the business 
manager of the Record — 44 and repeated the 
proposition to him. He, too, expressed himself 
favorably. Thus, if the deal should go through, 
the parties all around would be getting value 
received, and there would be no taint of favor or 
charity. You would be earning your way, getting 
an education, and still retaining your connection 
with the Record. During vacations you might 
come down here and help us out if you wished, 
and thus earn some extra money.” 

Ordway shoved back his cup and plate and 
played with his napkin meditatively. 

44 I’ve had this thing in mind ever since that 
night we were out at Tuxedo,” he continued. 
44 And I don’t mind telling you now a thing I 
hesitated to speak about then. You will remem- 
ber my vague allusions to it. Of course you and 
I weren’t very well acquainted at that time. 
We know each other pretty well now. I’ve been 
keeping my eye on you, and I’ve made up my mind 
that you’re a boy well worthy of the scholarship, 
and quite able to give the Record the correspond- 
ence it wants from those Hudson River ^ prep ’ 


SUSPICIONS 


107 


schools. You’ll be mixed up with football and 
baseball and rowing, of course, and you’ll be able 
to give us, first-hand, a lot of news that we’ve 
had trouble in getting. It won’t overburden you 
with work, but it’ll help us out mightily in the 
office to have a good lively boy up there who knows 
what we want and can get it for us. But I’m a 
bit off my track. What I started out to say was 
this: I went through Yale as a newspaper corre- 
spondent. From start to finish, I earned my way 
reporting the athletic events and other legitimate 
pieces of news. That’s how I worked into the 
game down here. That’s the very thing I pro- 
pose for you.” 

Donald’s eyes were bright with added excite- 
ment, and a spot of color dyed each cheek. 

“ Mr. Ordway,” he said, “ you’re the best 
friend a boy ever had. To go to school has been 
the biggest ambition of my life. I’ve thought about 
it, and dreamed about it, day and night. I’ve 
seen from the time I came to New York that 
men who were educated had the best chance. 
There are wonderful chances here in New York, 
aren’t there, for men who know things? There 
aren’t many chances for men who grow up from 
boys such as Felix. I don’t want to be a Felix; 


108 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


I never will be! If I can get this scholarship, 
I’ll work as hard as any boy ever worked, for 
an education. I will, Mr. Ordway! I’ll prove 
that I’m worthy of it.” 

Ordway regarded him with deep inner satisfac- 
tion as he made this declaration. There was a 
moment’s silence. Then Ordway shoved back 
his chair. 

“ Well,” he said, “ there are six months between 
to-night and September, and we’ll have plenty 
of work to do in the meanwhile.” 

The next afternoon, as Ordway sat at his desk, 
he appeared to be absorbed in thought. His pipe 
was in his mouth, his feet were elevated, and he 
was leaning back in his revolving chair, which was 
turned so that its occupant could rest one elbow 
upon the desk comfortably. This was a favorite 
attitude of Ordway’s when his mind was engaged 
in a tussle with some problem of news. A stranger 
in the city room might have thought that Ordway 
was idling, but all the Record staff knew how far 
from idleness he really was. Just what he was 
thinking about, did not concern any one particu- 
larly. It was such a familiar thing to see Ordway 
thinking, that nobody gave him any special at- 
tention. 


SUSPICIONS 


109 


Felix, like the others, was not concerned. He 
would have been, undoubtedly, had he known 
that Ordway had been watching him closely for ten 
minutes as he sat on the bench conversing, in tones 
that were quite inaudible, with George Waters. 

The photograph episode had disappointed Felix 
very much. In his simplicity, he had anticipated 
that Donald would meet with instant discharge, 
and when he found that his enemy was not only 
retained, but was actually more conspicuous than 
ever, he dilated at length to George, upon the 
dreadful things that must be done to get rid of 
this thorn on the copy-bench. The next game, he 
declared, must be something really worth while. 
They must 4 4 get ” Donald somehow. 

All this, of course, was discussed well under 
cover. Felix was sly as a fox in a dark wood at 
night. And to further his purpose, he warned 
George that Donald must be treated with a new 
outward cordiality. They would bury the hatchet, 
ostensibly. There must be no more open hos- 
tility, no sneers, no grimaces. 

44 If we pretend that Kirk is our friend,” Felix 
explained, 44 there won’t be no suspicions when 
somethin’ happens. We don’t want no suspicions, 
do we? ” 


110 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


“ Of course not,” agreed George. 

But suspicion, quite undreamt of by Felix, 
had already taken root and was feeding upon the 
daily actions of these two choice specimens of 
the newspaper under-world. Ordway was not a 
man to breathe a word that might injure Felix 
or George wrongfully. Not even to Donald would 
the suspicion be broached until it became some- 
thing more than suspicion. 

So Ordway sat with his feet on his desk and 
smoked, but, as his keen gaze fell quite unnoticed 
upon Felix, conviction took shape in his brain. 


CHAPTER X 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 

r I THINGS went smoothly for a month, so far 
as Donald was concerned, but during this 
time Ordway was in the office only at intervals. 
It was generally understood that he was working 
on some big piece of news. Nobody except 
Chapin and Worth knew what it was — except, 
of course, the managing editor and the editor- 
in-chief. At times, all four of these high members 
of the force were closeted with Ordway. On two 
or three occasions Donald was summoned into 
one or another of the offices and saw them to- 
gether, apparently in serious consultation. 

During this interval, the boy often wondered 
when Ordway slept. Donald’s hours of duty 
usually were from one o’clock in the afternoon 
to midnight, or thereabouts, but on several oc- 
casions when he went to the office in the forenoon 
on some special task he found Ordway there. 
And sometimes, when he was kept several hours 
beyond his usual time because of some great fire 


112 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


or other news emergency, he had seen Ordway 
come in and busy himself at his desk, as if the 
hour were three in the afternoon instead of three 
in the morning. 

And during all this time his friend never men- 
tioned the subject that was so near the boy’s heart. 
It seemed as if he had forgotten it absolutely, 
though Donald scarcely had fears on that score. 
He knew that Ordway had difficult and impor- 
tant work in hand, and that all his energies were 
being concentrated upon it. How great those 
energies were, Donald had some faint conception. 

Felix, of course, had various theories, as he 
always had, upon Ordway’s mysterious activi- 
ties. 

44 It’s the legislature this time,” he confided to 
George and Donald, one day, as they sat together 
awaiting the buzzer. 44 It’s the legislature he’s 
goin’ to rip up the back. You just wait and see.” 

4 4 How do you know? ” demanded George, who 
always crowded Felix for reasons. 

44 Because,” said Felix shrewdly, 44 1 found out 
that he’s been up to Albany four times within a 
week.” 

44 How’d you find out? ” insisted George. 

44 Never mind,” returned Felix mysteriously; 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 


113 


“ ain’t it enough that I did find out? I ain’t 
like you, George. I ain’t sittin’ ’round the local 
room all day and night with my eyes shut.” 

“ Well,” George retorted, “ s’pose he did go up 
to Albany? How does that prove that he’s goin’ 
to rip up the legislature? ” 

“ I ain’t told you all I know,” said Felix. 
“ Did you s’pose for a minute that I had? ” 

“ I s’pose you’ve been snoopin’ around the old 
man’s desk aga — ” 

George, in an unguarded moment, had said too 
much. He checked himself abruptly as Felix’s 
face grew black. Then he tried to laugh it off. 

“ Of course I didn’t mean that you’d really 
snoop, Felix,” he apologized, with a sidelong 
glance at Donald. “ There goes the buzzer.” 

It was Donald who answered it, and while he 
was gone George received a series of scathing re- 
bukes that he did not forget for a while. 

“ Just say anything like that once more when 
Kirk is around,” Felix warned, “ and I’ll get you 
fired inside of an hour. I know some things about 
you, don’t I? Say! do I or don’t I? ” 

“ Yes,” said George remorsefully, “ but you’d 
better not tell ’em. You’re in pretty deep, your- 
self.” 


114 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


“ I’ll see to that part of it,” returned Felix 
loftily. 

Whether Ordway’s story pertained to the legis- 
lature, or to something else, was not a matter of 
great curiosity to Donald. He knew it was none 
of his business, and he expressed no views on the 
subject to any one. He did hope earnestly, how- 
ever, that whatever the thing might be it would 
reflect fresh honors upon his big friend. That was 
a consideration more important to the boy than 
the story itself. 

Along toward the latter part of April, Ordway’s 
labors culminated. For two days he had spent 
most of the time at his desk, and his typewriter had 
clicked incessantly far into the night. The pages 
that came from his machine had been guarded 
with extraordinary care. His desk had been turned 
around so that no one could consciously or acci- 
dentally read any of the manuscript over his 
shoulder; each sheet was turned face downward 
when finished and the whole held with a heavy 
paper-weight. Whenever Ordway closed his desk, 
he carried the copy in person to the office of the 
editor-in-chief. 

And then came a night of suspense, during 
which Ordway stayed up-stairs and read the proofs 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 


115 


as they came from the printers. The copy-boys, 
who ordinarily had free access to the composing 
and proof-rooms, were barred. 

All these precautions — taken to prevent other 
newspapers from getting hold of the story — were 
successful. Ord way’s four-column article was 
printed in the last edition and proved to be, not 
a ‘ rip-up ’ of the state legislature, as Felix had 
predicted, but the inside history of certain cus- 
toms affairs. Ordway had made trips, not to 
Albany, but to Washington, and the storm center 
w T as now in the office of the United States officials 
of the great New York Custom-house at Bowling 
Green. 

With all this, Donald had nothing whatever to 
do, but on the following evening he was sent by 
Chapin to get some of Ordway’s second-day copy. 
He found Ordway busily writing, with a pencil, 
in the office of the Collector of Customs. It was 
after ten o’clock, and ordinarily the great govern- 
ment structure would have been quite deserted. 
Now, however, this particular office was very 
lively. Mysterious conferences were in progress 
between the government officers, clerks were 
drawing up documents, and an air of quiet 
activity was apparent all about. The office and 


116 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


all it contained, however, was enigmatical to the 
boy. As he sat waiting for Ordway to finish, he 
found himself wondering if he could ever master 
the complex detail of news-gathering. Ordway ’s 
grasp upon this journalistic machinery seemed, to 
him, little short of marvelous. Whether events 
took him to the seat of government, to the finan- 
cial centers, or to police headquarters, Ordway 
seemed equally at home. He knew just where 
to put his finger on the button he wanted to push ; 
he knew just what door to open, and whom he 
would find behind it; he called a multitude of men 
by their names, and most of them seemed to 
stand in some awe of him. 

Now Ordway had much to write, and though 
his fingers moved swiftly, it was after eleven 
o’clock before he folded his copy and passed it 
over to Donald with a sigh of weariness. Ordway 
was tired through and through. The ordeal of 
the month was reflected in his haggard face and 
gaunt figure. But he could not rest just yet. 
With his carefully worked-out news at hot heat, 
he still had days and nights of intense activity 
ahead. Developments were crowding fast, and 
even with all the help the Record’s staff could 
give him, he was still the chief man in these events. 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 


117 


He was the only one who knew every in-and-out 
of the thing, the only one who could grasp all 
its intricacies. 

“ I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Don,” 
he said, with a smile, as the boy took the copy. 
“ It’s been monotonous for you, sitting here, I 
know. I’d have gone to the office to write it 
except for the fact that I was entrenched here 
and I thought it wise to remain. It’s not always 
easy to get in here, Don, and when a fellow has 
gained a fortification of the enemy, he’d better 
hold it. Now I’m going to scurry about here a 
bit for anything new, and after that I’ll get into 
the office and grind out whatever I have. Please 
tell Chapin or Worth that I’ll be in, probably, by 
midnight.” 

Then Ordway detained Donald a minute by 
laying a hand on his knee. 

“ Don’t imagine,” he said, “ that I’ve forgot- 
ten the matters we discussed a few weeks ago in 
the Fulton Street restaurant. I’ve been pretty 
busy, you know.” 

“ Yes,” said Donald, “ and I knew you hadn’t 
forgotten, any more than I had.” 

The boy looked into the eyes of his friend, and 
the utter weariness there made him very sorry 


118 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY -BOY 


for Ordway. Never had he seen in the other’s 
face such complete exhaustion and lack of its 
usual fire and animation. 

44 Don’t think about my affairs now, Mr. 
Ordway,” he added. 44 I’m sure you’ve had 
enough to break any man down. When this thing 
is through, I hope you’ll have a long rest.” 

Again Ordway smiled, rather wanly. 44 There’s 
not much rest for us chaps on the Record,” he 
said. 44 Chapin already has three or four good 
big assignments hanging over my head. He wants 
me to jump out to Colorado next week on a 
special stunt, and he thinks I might run up into 
Oregon afterward and get a dozen columns of 
stuff on their advanced forms of local government. 
And then, you know, the Presidential conventions 
are coming on pretty soon, and newspaper men 
don’t rest much on such occasions. But don’t 
mistake me, Don,” he added, brightening. 44 I’m 
not complaining — not a bit of it. I live on action; 
the more of it, the better. The best thing in life 
is work. Work and I are good friends — when I 
get something out of it. Oh, I don’t mean money, 
Don! Money is really the least of the considera- 
tions. A certain amount of it is convenient to 
have, but the chief thing is results. Results are 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 


119 


what last; the money is gone in a day. Whatever 
you do in life, work for results and not money. 
The cash is sure to come if you make that a rule; 
at least, all the cash that you’ll ever need.” 

He took away his hand, and Donald rose to go. 
But Ordway seemed especially communicative on 
this night, and especially kind. 

“ I’ve been neglecting your education of late,” 
he went on, still detaining the boy, “ but I mean 
to make up for it. I’m going to give you some 
vigorous training this summer, so you can take 
up our correspondence work at the ‘ prep ’ in 
the fall. And if I were you, Don, I’d look beyond 
even the ‘ prep.’ There’s a good deal beyond 
that, you know.” 

Donald’s eyes were bright. 

“ Yes,” he agreed: “Yale.” 

It was a bright, clear night, with the stars 
twinkling down upon Bowling Green placidly, yet 
with a fitful wind that came up Broadway from 
the bay in gusts that at times resembled a gale. 
As Donald emerged from the huge granite pile 
of the Federal Building, one of these momentary 
hurricanes was shrieking up the thoroughfare 
with a blast that almost took him off his feet. 
Broadway, at its lower end, is often quite as empty 


120 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY -BOY 


at night as it is lively by day, and now, for a 
minute, the wind had things pretty much its own 
way. It brought a blinding cloud of dust along 
with it from the Battery, swept across the oval 
grass-plot of the “ green/’ and howled along 
northward through the canon of towering sky- 
scrapers, now only dark hulks against the starlight. 

Holding his hat and shutting his eyes against 
the swirling dust, Donald stood for a few moments 
on the Custom-house steps, awaiting the pleasure 
of the wind. When the violence of the outbreak 
subsided he brushed the dirt from his shoulders, 
drew his handkerchief over his eyes to free them 
from the irritating particles, and started at a 
brisk walk toward Park Row. No car was in 
sight, and, as the distance was less than a mile, 
he resolved to make it afoot. 

He had not gone many steps, however, when a 
fresh instalment of the hurricane came after him, 
sweeping along with even greater gusto than the 
previous one. The dust was quite appalling as 
it beat upon his back. He turned up his coat- 
collar to keep it out of his neck, and, holding his 
hat again, he stood braced against the gale. This 
sort of thing, however, was not to his liking, and 
he resolved to abandon his purpose of walking 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 


121 


and go back to the Bowling Green Subway station, 
whence he could ride to Brooklyn Bridge and 
emerge from the tunnel not far from the Record 
office. 

He turned when the wind lulled once more, 
and was startled to find himself confronting a 
man, not an arm’s length away. There was 
nothing strange about seeing a man on lower 
Broadway even late at night, but there was some- 
thing unusual, it seemed to him, in this particu- 
lar man’s attitude. He had stopped just behind 
the boy and, at the moment the latter turned, had 
extended one arm as if to seize him, or, at least, to 
touch him. 

For a second, Donald stood still; then, step- 
ping quickly backward, out of reach, he looked 
the other sharply in the face. At the moment, 
the air was still filled with dust, and, in addition, 
the boy was looking into an electric light and the 
man’s countenance was in the shadow. There 
was something very familiar, however, in the 
general contour and bearing of the figure, and this 
resemblance was cleared up an instant later when 
the man laughed. 

“Why, Mr. Duff!” exclaimed Donald. “I 
didn’t recognize you at first; I really didn’t.” 


CHAPTER XI 


THE LURE 

TT was Duff, beyond question — the same 
pudgy, complacent, disagreeable Duff who 
had gone down in such disgrace a few months pre- 
vious. Since that occasion no one on the Record 
had seen or heard of him. Apparently, he had 
slunk away from New York for fresh fields. New 
York, indeed, was no place for Duff. But here he 
was. Where he had been or where he came from 
so suddenly, was immaterial. He was here now. 

“ Yes,” he agreed cheerfully, “ I’m Duff. Glad 
to see me, aren’t you, kid? Oh, of course you are! 
I owe you — how many dollars? ” 

Donald hesitated. Then he answered firmly: 
“ Six.” 

“ Yes, six; you’ve got a good memory — as 
good as my own. Six dollars it is, and six dollars 
you are going to get. That was an unfortunate 
affair, up at the Oregon last winter, wasn’t it? 
A very unhappy, wretched affair! I shouldn’t 
have drunk that last glass of champagne; the last 


THE LURE 


123 


glass put me to sleep. I wasn’t drunk — not at 
all; I was sleepy, dead sleepy. I couldn’t have 
kept awake for a regiment of brass monkeys. 
Chapin and Worth and Ordway, and the whole 
bunch of them, couldn’t have kept me awake with 
sledge hammers. Well, that’s gone; it’s a dead 
one now, so why revive it? I’m back again, and 
of course I’ve signed the pledge. Don’t you 
believe me? ” 

He had drawn nearer the boy, and his tone was 
so soft and remorseful that the latter felt sorry 
for him. Donald always had 4 soft spot in his 
heart for hard luck or distress. 

44 Why, yes, I believe you, of course,” he re- 
turned. 44 I’m glad you’ve signed the pledge, 
Mr. Duff. I — I hope you’ll keep it.” 

4 4 Keep it? Why shouldn’t I? Haven’t I 
learned my lesson? Yes, I’ve turned over a new 
leaf all around. I’m a different chap altogether. 
I’ve been out west since I saw you — Chicago, 
St. Louis, Omaha. I’ve worked almost every- 
where in my day. But New York for me! Ah! 
here’s the place for a fellow to settle. I’m back 
here for keeps. No more west for yours truly.” 

44 New York’s a pretty good town,” agreed 
Donald, and then he added suddenly: 44 But 


124 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


I’ve got to be going. It’s getting late and they’ll 
be looking for me.” 

He was drawing away when Duff put out his 
hand. 

“ Wait,” he said. “ I’m going up myself. 
I’ve got a taxicab down at the Custom-house. 
Come along up with me.” 

“ A taxicab? ” Donald hesitated as he asked 
the question. “ What paper are you with now? ” 

“ The Star,” said Duff, with conscious pride. 
“ The Morning Star. It’s the greatest daily in 
the whole country, excepting, of course, the Rec- 
ord. In some respects it beats the Record, be- 
cause, as you see, it gives me a taxicab when the 
Record makes you walk. Come along back, boy, 
and ride up with me. I saw you come out a few 
minutes ago; I was trying to overtake you for 
the very purpose of inviting you to ride with me. 
Come along.” 

He took Donald confidentially by the arm and 
led him back to the Federal Building. Donald 
had noticed the cab standing there, but had 
given it no more than a glance. 

“ Hop in,” said Duff, opening the door. 

For a moment the boy drew back. The Star 
was a formidable rival of the Record’s; he knew 


THE LURE 


125 


that very well. In a way, the two newspapers 
were enemies. They went to extremes, some- 
times, to beat each other on news. Many a game 
of strategy had the Record men played against 
the Star men. In newspaperdom a scoop counts 
for big things. Yet these games of wits had not 
been dishonorable games within Donald’s experi- 
ence. Dishonor was not in Ord way’s code, nor 
in Chapin’s. If they could beat a rival fairly 
and squarely, they did so, but never dishonestly. 
“ Let the shrewdest and smartest and fastest 
man win,” Ord way had said, “ but cut out all 
crookedness. You don’t have to cheat to make a 
success of the newspaper game. Fight, but fight 
square.” 

And so the Star men, usually, were very good 
friends with the Record men. Off duty, they were 
often as chummy as lawyers on the opposite sides 
of a case. Even on duty, Donald had seen them 
together on excellent terms. Why, then, shouldn’t 
he ride up Broadway in Duff’s taxicab? Of course 
Duff’s company was not very desirable, but the 
night was disagreeable and the hour late. The 
cab would get him to the office in a few minutes. 

So he got in, and Duff followed and slammed the 
door. 


126 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


** To the Star office,” he commanded, through 
the open window, and Donald, putting his head 
out, supplemented: 44 Stop first at the Record.” 

44 Now,” began Duff, when he had lighted a 
cigarette, 44 I’ve got a little matter of business to 
propose. Don’t get excited, but listen. How 
would you like to make twenty-five dollars? ” 

44 How? ” asked Donald curiously. 

The other seemed to hesitate. Even his own 
depravity was rubbed a little roughly by the 
task he had on hand. Then he removed the 
cigarette from his lips, blew forth a surprising 
volume of smoke, and said, a little unnaturally: 

44 By letting me read Ordway’s copy.” 

Donald started as if a bullet had struck him. 
He laid his hand on the door-clasp as if to get 
out. 

44 Wait! ” said Duff quietly. 44 Don’t get ex- 
cited. Twenty-five dollars is a lot of money for a 
boy of your age. Think what you can do with it.” 

He had his clutch on the boy’s arm, as if to 
prevent any contemplated flight from the vehicle. 

44 Let go! ” said Donald imperatively. “ I 
don’t want your money. Let go, I say.” 

But the man retained his hold, and a very firm 
hold at that. 


THE LURE 


127 


“ Sit down,” he advised. “ You can’t jump 
out like this — you might be killed. Besides, 
there’s no occasion to jump. There’s no compul- 
sion about this thing. I’m not going to force the 
twenty-five dollars on you. I merely asked how 
you’d like to earn it.” 

The cab was running swiftly; already it was 
abreast of Trinity the chimes of which were just 
ringing half past eleven. Donald sat down, and 
Duff loosened his clutch on the other’s sleeve. 

“ How’d you like to earn it? ” he repeated. 

“ I don’t want to earn it,” said Donald sharply. 
“ Do you think I’m that sort of fellow? Do you 
take me for a traitor? ” 

“ You use high-toned phrases,” returned Duff. 
“ This little affair isn’t a matter of national 
treason. It’s merely helping a friend who’s in 
trouble. Listen a minute: I’ve got to get this 
story to-night or I’m gone up on the Star. See? 
I’ve tried and failed. I’m green as grass in New 
York, and I couldn’t touch those government 
chaps down at the Custom-house; I couldn’t 
even get yes or no out of them. On the other 
hand, Ordway walks in quietly and picks out 
whatever morsels of news he wants, as if they be- 
longed to him. I saw him in there, writing stuff 


128 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY -BOY 


by the column. Is that fair? Do you call it a 
square deal? I tell you that I’ve as much right 
to the news as Ordway has. He’s got no authority 
to bottle it up.” 

“ He hasn’t bottled it up,” Donald asserted, 
“ but what he’s got belongs to the Record. It’s 
not for sale, either.” 

In this assertion he was emphatic, and Duff 
caught him by the sleeve again. 

“ Then,” he said, “ loan it to me. Leave the 
twenty-five dollars out of the case altogether. 
Let me read Ordway ’s copy, and the first chance 
I get I’ll return the favor. There’ll be a way, 
somehow or other. Put the transaction on the 
plane of friendship. Will you do it? ” 

“ No, I’ll not do it. The thing would be just 
as bad one way as the other. Stop the car and 
let me out. Quick! here’s Park Row. 

As if to obey, Duff put his head out of the win- 
dow, but what he said to the chauffeur was quite 
different : 

“ Go along as fast as you can up Broadway.” 

Donald was on his feet, too, but Duff forced 
him back to the seat. Short and plump though 
he was, he had muscles of iron. The boy was 
like a cloth in his hands. 


THE LURE 


129 


“ Now,” he said, holding him there, 44 don’t 
be in such a hurry to get out. There’s plenty of 
time, and I’ll take you back to the Record pretty 
soon. But first I want to talk this affair over, in 
a sane sort of way. I don’t believe you’re hard- 
hearted enough to refuse so simple a thing as I 
asked. What’s the difference, anyhow? The 
Record had its big 4 beat’ this morning, and these 
4 follow ’ stories aren’t so very important. It’ll 
not make any material difference to the Record, 
or to Ordway. He’s had glory enough to suit any 
chap. But I tell you it will make a whole lot of 
difference to me. If I don’t get this story, I’m 
a sure-enough goner. My last hope will be ruined. 
I’ll be incontinently fired. I tell you I’ve got 
to get it. Don’t be stubborn. Help me out and 
I’ll pay you back ten times over.” 

44 1 — I can’t!” 

Donald struggled somewhat feebly in the man’s 
firm hold. Duff had one arm around him from 
behind, and a leg over his knees. He was power- 
less. He tried to call out, but his voice seemed to 
make no impression above the wind. The car 
was speeding along, with a clear street ahead, and 
the dark buildings of the wholesale district were 
gliding past like shadows. 


130 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


“ Yes, you can/ 5 returned Duff, whose cigarette 
now hung limply between his lips. “ Yes, you 
can, and nobody will ever be the wiser. We’ll 
stop under one of these lights and I’ll glance it 
through. That’ll be all. I just want the main 
facts — enough to save me. Can’t you see that 
I’ve got to have it? Can’t you see that? ” 

“ I — I can’t! ” gasped the boy. “ Let — 
let me go! ” 

Duff removed his leg and loosened his hold a 
little so that Donald breathed better. But he was 
careful not to give his prisoner any advantage. 

“ Now,” he said, “ we’re near Union Square, 
and the longer you keep up this foolish resistance 
the farther away from the Record you’ll get. I 
don’t want to hurt you, and I won’t unless you 
make me, but I don’t intend to have you jump 
out and kill yourself. Be reasonable. We’re all 
men together; why not help a fellow out when he 
needs it? ” 

“ Because,” said Donald, “ it would be the most 
disgraceful, dishonest thing a fellow could do. 
I’d hate myself forever afterward. I can’t, Duff, 
I simply can’t. I — I’m sorry for you, but I 
can’t help you. Please — please let me go! ” 

For a moment Duff took away his hands en- 


THE LURE 


131 


tirely, and Donald thought his plea had moved 
the fellow to a sense of its justice. But this be- 
lief was not justified. Shifting his position so 
as to give him better leverage, he suddenly laid 
hands on the boy again. 

44 All right/’ he said, and his tobacco-tainted 
breath came in gusts squarely in Donald’s face; 
44 all right, if you won’t give me the copy, I’ll 
take it.” 

44 Wait! ” There was a new note in the boy’s 
voice. 44 Wait! ” he repeated; 44 if there’s no 
help for it. I’ll hand it over myself. You — hurt 
me, Duff! Please — please don’t bear on so 
hard! ” 

Duff released him promptly. 

44 Good! ” he exclaimed. 44 1 thought you were 
a sensible boy. Why, I’ll give you the twenty- 
five dollars anyhow, as soon as I get it. It’ll be 
all 4 velvet ’ for you; can’t you see that it will? 
It’ll be the easiest money you ever earned; and 
it’ll save my skin, sure enough. Come along — 
quick! ” 

Donald sat up and put his left hand in his inside 
coat pocket. 

44 Please sit down, if you want this,” he said, 
and Duff, eager and almost breathless, obeyed. 


132 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


As the lad produced the folded manuscript, he 
reached for it with both hands. His lips were 
parted and his eyes gleamed with triumph. 

But the next moment, with a lightning-like 
motion, Donald tossed the precious copy out of 
the window. It fell to the pavement, but scarcely 
had it alighted when, with a swoop, the gale 
caught it and carried it aloft in a cluster of flut- 
tering sheets. With a swirl and a rustle, the pages 
parted company. Some went scurrying broad- 
cast over Union Square; some sailed off like kites 
and found lodging places, perhaps, on the roofs of 
the skyscrapers; some navigated the air straight 
up Broadway. In a minute it would have been 
difficult to corral even one solitary page of all 
the long story Ordway had so laboriously written. 

Donald had sunk back on the cushion, prepared 
for whatever might come. At all events, the copy 
was gone. It was beyond his power to give; 
beyond Duff’s power to take. This fellow might 
strike him, shoot him, kill him, but he could not 
make a traitor of him. 

Duff, however, did none of these things. He 
merely sat back on the seat as if dazed. 

“ Well,” he said, “ you’ve done it, haven’t 
you? I might have known what you’d do. I 


THE LURE 


133 


ought to have taken it in the first place. You 
might as well get out now and go back to the 
Record. Tell them what happened if you choose, 
but Chapin won’t believe you; remember that. 
He’ll think you lost Or d way’s copy, and then 
framed up the excuse. Some day, when you’re out 
of a job, come to me and I’ll help you. I know 
what hard luck is; you don’t. I know what com- 
radeship is; some day you’ll learn. The devil 
gets his claws on us all at some time or another. 
I don’t wish you misfortune; it’ll come to you 
unwished. Good night! ” 

He had the chauffeur stop the car, and Don- 
ald got out. The wind was scurrying up Broad- 
way, and for a moment the dust blinded him. 
When he looked up the taxicab was gone. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE LOST STORY 

^IHAPIN was still in the office when Donald 
reached there, just about midnight. With 
his customary calmness he heard the boy’s story, 
though he looked at him with an odd light in his 
keen gray eyes. The scrutiny cut the lad like 
a knife. What Duff had predicted was true. 
Chapin suspected him of concocting the yarn to 
shield his own carelessness in losing the manu- 
script. At least, Donald felt that this was the 
case. As he sat there under the city editor’s cold, 
quiet eyes, he turned red and then white, and red 
again. This was the second time he had come 
in without the thing he had gone after — the 
second time he had been obliged to report with 
such an excuse. 

But the main point with Chapin just then was 
not the question of Donald’s veracity. Ordway’s 
story was lost. It was midnight, and Or d way had 
not come in. The missing manuscript was very 
important; without it, the Record would be in a 


THE LOST STORY 


135 


bad hole. Ordway must be found at once; he 
would have to duplicate his copy. 

Without censure or comment of any sort, 
Chapin took up the telephone at his elbow and 
called the Custom-house. After repeated ring- 
ing, he got the custodian. The Collector’s office 
was closed, the man told him. Ordway had gone 
away at a quarter of twelve. 

Chapin hung up the receiver and turned back 
to Donald. In the door stood Felix, and the evil 
light in his eyes showed how much he relished 
Donald’s predicament. Just back of the partition 
stood George Waters, listening. He was not so 
bold as Felix, and usually kept out of sight when 
eavesdropping. 

“ Ordway may have dropped in for a bite of 
lunch somewhere,” said Chapin. “ Get down to 
the Owl Cafe and see if he’s there.” The city 
editor was speaking to Donald. “ Then, if you 
don’t find him, go over to Jackson’s on Maiden 
Lane. If he isn’t there, he may be at Renton’s 
or perhaps at one of the lunch counters on Cort- 
landt Street, off Broadway. Get around as fast 
as you can, and if you find Ordway tell him to 
come in quick.” 

Donald turned to go and Chapin spoke to Felix. 


136 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


“ You get out on the hunt, too. You know where 
Ordway is apt to be. Scurry around and find 
him.” 

Just then the city night editor came in. 

“ Worth,” said Chapin, quietly enough, but in 
tones that seemed to accuse Donald of terrible 
deeds, “ Ordway’s story is lost. We’re up against 
it hard. If Ordway shouldn’t show up until late, 
we’d be in a bad pickle. How much have we got 
in type on the customs story? ” 

“ Scant two columns,” answered Worth, scowl- 
ing at Donald. “ Ordway’s lead is scheduled for 
a column. How’d his copy get lost? ” 

“ That fellow Duff again,” said Chapin lacon- 
ically, but to Donald it seemed that the words 
were not intended to carry conviction. “ He 
tried to read the copy, and — ” 

The sharp ringing of the telephone interrupted 
him. Donald’s heart beat with a sudden hope. 
It might be Ordway calling. But it wasn’t. One 
of the police reporters had a crime to report; 
he wanted help. 

“ Send McWalters,” said Chapin to Worth, as 
he clicked the receiver back on its hook. “ Sched- 
ule the shooting for half a column on the inside.” 
Again the city editor’s ’phone broke in with its 


THE LOST STORY 


137 


jangle. Chapin took up the instrument with the 
machine-like equanimity that always marked 
him. For a minute he conversed with the myste- 
rious wire. 

“ There’s a wreck up in the Subway at Times 
Square,” he said, as he hung up again. “ Get 
four men out there in a hurry.” 

“I’ll have to use Higgins,” said Worth, “ and 
call off Jones from his political yarn. We’re 
short of men to-night. How bad is the wreck? ” 

“ Pretty bad. Send any of the men up there — 
I don’i care who they are. Cut politics short and 
trim the bank story hard. We’ll be badly crowded. 
Kill Henderson’s feature.” 

Donald had waited on the threshold in the hope 
that Ordway might have been heard from, but now 
he departed, and Felix came after him. As they 
went down in the elevator together Felix could not 
resist the temptation to say, in a bantering 
air: 

“ Oh, my eye! That was a great yarn you put 
up to the old man, Kirk! How’d you really lose 
Ord way’s copy? ” 

“ It was no yarn at all,” retorted Donald hotly. 
“ It was the truth.” 

“ Yes, of course,” agreed Felix, with a grin; 


138 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


44 of course. But I mean really? Do you think 
Chapin believes it? ” 

4 4 Whether he does or not,” said Donald, his 
eyes flashing, 44 it was the truth. If I’d lost the 
copy, I’d have said so.” 

44 Yes, so would I,” assented the other mali- 
ciously. 44 Oh, my eye! ” 

Donald’s fists clenched instinctively, but a mo- 
ment later relaxed. He drew back into a corner 
of the elevator and was silent. He shut his lips 
tightly, as he had often done when Felix tempted 
him to a quarrel. He had great things at stake 
on the Record now, and there was enough to 
worry him without fighting with Felix. 

The boys separated on Park Row, and Donald, 
running lightly and rapidly, made the rounds 
Chapin had indicated. At every stop his heart 
sank lower, for Ordway had not been seen that 
night at any of the restaurants. A dozen other 
places he visited in the forlorn hope that he 
might find his man, but in vain. 

Felix was already back when he returned to the 
office. Felix, in reality, had made no great effort. 
He preferred that Ordway should not be found. 
The predicament of the Record was of less conse- 
quence to him than the distress of his rival. 


THE LOST STORY 


139 


Secretly, he hoped that Ordway might not come 
in at all that night. The Record, of course, would 
be scooped on its own story, for some of the other 
papers, no doubt, would have much the same 
material that Ordway had secured and that Donald 
had lost. But to Felix this was all very fine, since 
it would injure his enemy. 

Donald’s anxiety was, indeed, very great. It 
seemed to him now that he had done a foolish 
thing in throwing Ordway’s copy out of the cab 
window. He had not counted on Ordway’s 
disappearance. Again and again he asked himself 
whether it wouldn’t have teen better to yield to 
Duff’s importunities, dishonorable though they 
were. He had been completely in Duff’s power, 
and he wouldn’t have been to blame had he yielded. 
Nobody would ever have known it, and all this 
trouble would have been saved. 

There was much bitterness in the boy’s heart 
as he pondered these things. His loyalty, he 
felt, had been wholly unappreciated. He had 
been in really desperate straits, and had done what 
seemed best on the impulse. Instead of believing 
him and thanking him, Chapin had looked him 
through and through with those cold, doubting 
eyes; Worth had scowled at him. Felix had 


140 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY -BOY 


maddened him with his open accusations. And 
now, to cap the climax, Ordway had vanished 
and the Record was likely to make an utterly 
ridiculous showing in the morning on the great 
piece of news Ordway had dug up. 

For a time, Donald sat on his bench in a very 
black frame of mind. Dishonesty, deceit, treason, 
seemed better than truth and loyalty. Had he 
listened to Duff — 

Duff, indeed! The thought brought swift re- 
vulsion. The treason, he knew, would have 
burned his very soul forever. Never again could 
he have looked Chapin or Worth or Ordway in 
the face. Never again could he have held up his 
head. The thought of his possible disgrace 
turned him sick. 

He rested his back against the wall, his heart 
beating fast with the mere thought that he might 
have done it. He might have yielded to the 
tempting voice of the devil, and been stained for 
all time with the memory of the thing. But he 
hadn’t yielded. He was clean and honest; his 
conscience was clear, and no matter what Chapin 
and Worth might think, they could not make the 
thing so. Ordway, at least, would believe him; 
he was sure of it. 


THE LOST STORY 


141 


The hands of the clock seemed to move very 
fast. It was after one now, and still no word from 
Or d way. Every few minutes, on Chapin’s orders, 
Donald went to the telephone booth in the city 
room and called up the apartment house where 
Ordway lived. It was barely possible, the city 
editor thought, that he might go home without 
coming to the office. But no, nothing was known 
of him there. He was not in — hadn’t been since 
early in the forenoon. 

And then, at intervals, Donald called various 
other places where Ordway might perchance 
appear. There were clubs where he went at 
times, though rarely; there were uptown cafes. 
But New York is a better place to hide in than the 
vast expanse of the desert, and if Ordway had in- 
tended to hide he could not have done so more 
effectually. 

It was one of those abnormally busy nights that 
come at times on a metropolitan newspaper. Late 
as it was, not a man of the staff had been excused. 
A strange variety of news seemed to conspire to 
keep the organization keyed to its highest pitch. 
On the upper East Side a strike riot called for 
men; from Riverside Drive came an elopement 
story; cholera was reported from Hoffman Island. 


142 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


The Subway accident was worse than had ap- 
peared at first, and the police reporters were over- 
burdened with work. 

The city room presented an animated spectacle. 
Most of the men were in from their assignments, 
and the clatter of typewriters was loud and in- 
cessant. Felix and George were kept jumping 
about like monkeys, as one man after another 
shouted “ Copy — here, Copy! ” Sometimes they 
lost their patience over a minute’s delay, and used 
impolite language that caused Felix to make faces 
behind their backs. 

Chapin came in at intervals, o? Worth, and 
scanned the scene with business-like comprehen- 
sion. “ Hurry along that Subway copy,” Chapin 
would say. “ And you, Franklin, speed up that 
yarn of yours. It’s getting late.” Worth, less 
urbane, would use stronger language. “ Come, 
come, Darlington! ” he would snap. “ You’ll 
have to work faster. The composing-room is 
crowding us for copy.” 

Then he would go to a window and open it 
wider, but when he was out of the room again 
some disgruntled man whose copy was blowing 
away would jump up and elose it quietly, with a 
muttered growl. 


THE LOST STORY 


143 


Vast quantities of tobacco smoke filled the city 
room, and a great mass of crumpled copy-paper 
littered the floor. The arc-light overhead played 
a new tune in sputtering measure, and at inter- 
vals went out for a second or two. From below 
came the sullen roar of the presses as they began 
to roll off the mail edition. Still no Ordway. 

Donald had just finished one of his hopeless 
rounds of telephoning when Chapin came in with 
Lawson, the managing editor. They stood look- 
ing over the room, and the boy heard them talking 
about the lost story. Something would have to be 
done, and done pretty quick, he heard Lawson say. 
The make-up man up-stairs was raising a row 
over the thing; he had the tail of the story, but 
how could he run that alone? He wanted the 
lead, and he must have it quick. 

Then Chapin pointed to Donald, and the mana- 
ging editor came over and spoke to the boy. He 
was a tall, fierce-looking man with an imperial, and 
his eyes seemed like hot coals. 

“ How did this happen? ” he demanded, as 
the lad stood quaking before him. 

Once more Donald repeated his experience with 
Duff, but the words seemed to stick in his throat; 
he felt that his story wasn’t believed. 


144 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


“You had no business in a cab with this fel- 
low,” said Lawson. “ Don’t you know that? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” assented the boy, as his eyes 
sought the floor. 

“ You knew that you had no business there? ” 

“I — I wasn’t sure,” returned Donald weakly. 

“You weren’t sure? ” There was rebuke in 
the chief’s voice. “ You weren’t sure? Chapin, 
I think this boy — ” 

He was interrupted just then by the telegraph 
editor, who came in and touched him on the arm. 

“ We’ve got a 4 flash ’ on an earthquake story 
from Frisco,” he said, and the three walked away, 
leaving the opinion of the managing editor in- 
complete. Whatever punishment he had come 
near pronouncing, Donald could only guess. In 
spite of himself, a tear dimmed his eye, and he 
dashed it away roughly and turned back to the 
telephone. Again he called his round of numbers; 
again he met with failure. 

Then, for a minute or two, he helped Felix and 
George carry copy. Other reporters were coming 
in, making their statements briefly to Worth, and 
then stepping briskly to their desks to add to the 
general clicking of machines and calls for the 
copy-boys. Up-stairs, the huge grist of news 


THE LOST STORY 


145 


was rapidly taking shape on the make-up tables. 
Long galley proofs were coming down for Chapin 
and Worth to look over. Below, the presses 
were still thundering, and outside the wagons 
were being stacked high with bundles for the 
fast-mail trains that would soon be speeding in 
all directions. 

Suddenly a little gong on the wall of the city 
room began to strike. There was a cessation of 
typewriter clatter, and for a few moments the 
room was still. Then, when the bell ceased, the 
racket commenced again, like a machine suddenly 
started. 

“ Where’s the fire? ” asked Worth, from his 
den. 

“ Madison Square,” said Felix, who knew all 
the alarms without looking them up. 

Worth got up and came into the city room. 
He walked back of the rows of typewriters, and 
then, pausing behind one of his men, he said, 
with some abruptness: 

“ Rumsey, get up to Madison Square in a hurry. 
Bite off your copy where it is. We’ve got enough, 
anyway.” 

Rumsey went, without waiting to close his 
desk or even to remove the last page of his manu- 


146 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


script. He had not been gone many minutes when 
the little gong rang again. 

“ Two-nine! ” said Felix laconically, and again 
Worth came out. 

“ Allport and Smith! ” he said, calling out the 
names imperatively. 4 4 Get up to Madison Square 
and help Rumsey. It’s a bad place for a second 
alarm.” 

The noise of the typewriters had paused again, 
but was going now as busily as ever. Donald 
went once more to the telephone booth. Again 
the same answers came back: nothing known 
of Ordway. 

The boy sat down on his bench in utter de- 
spair. The clock indicated ten minutes past two. 
He heard Chapin talking through the office 
’phone to the make-up man about the customs 
story. They would fix up the proofs the best 
they could, he said, and let it go; there was no 
help for it. Sick at heart, and exhausted with a 
long day of work and this added anxiety, the lad 
leaned against the wall again and closed his eyes 
for a second or two. 

When he opened them, Ordway was coming in 
at the door of the city room — Ordway himself. 
Donald sprang to his feet, scarcely believing. 


THE LOST STORY 


147 


but Ordway strode across the room and entered 
Chapin’s den. 

The boy followed. Ordway had unearthed a 
new angle to the customs story; to get it, he had 
gone up near Central Park and routed out two 
or three families. It was a good piece of news, 
he said, and ought to go in the lead, though 
it wouldn’t require much space. He would keep 
it within a stick or two of print — And then 
Ordway paused, having seen something in Chapin’s 
eyes. 

“ Take off your coat,” said the city editor, 
“ for you’ve got a fast job ahead of you. Donald, 
tell Ordway what became of his copy.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


FAST TIME 

/"A RD WAY’S fingers flew over the keys of his 
typewriter. Whatever Ordway undertook, 
he mastered. Although the typewriting art was 
merely incidental to his calling as a newspaper 
man, he had made that incident almost a specialty. 
It enabled him to roll up an amazing quantity of 
work in a very brief space of time. In emergency, 
when the hands of the clock were nearing the 
dead-line, or even when the foreman of the press- 
room in the basement was holding his monsters 
for the last plate that was waiting for the flying 
fingers up-stairs, Ordway could reel off page after 
page with the apparent ease of a professional 
typist. In the same way, he had mastered short- 
hand, because it helped him in the greater work 
he was doing. Whatever helped, Ordway seized 
upon. 

But now Ordway’s fingers, however fast they 
seemed to go, lacked the precision and deftness 
they usually had. It was not the customary 


FAST TIME 


149 


touch his machine felt, but the wavering strokes 
of a man worn to the breaking point. Donald, 
as he stood near, ready to take the pages as the 
other pulled them from the roll, saw that he was 
on the point of collapse. Remorse cut the boy 
deeply; he remembered that he himself was re- 
sponsible for this unlooked-for task. If only he 
had kept out of Duff’s taxicab and gone along 
about his business, his friend would not be bur- 
dened with such an unwelcome feat. 

But Ord way’s fingers were flying, nevertheless. 
He had listened in silence as Donald briefly 
related the facts. He had made no comment, 
either upon Duff or upon the boy. He had simply 
looked at the clock, walked to his desk, tossed 
aside his coat, and gone at it. His silence had 
hurt the lad far more than Chapin’s searching 
gaze or Worth’s scowl — even more than the half- 
finished sentence of the managing editor. Did 
Ord way believe him a falsifier? If so, then noth- 
ing would seem worth while in the future. 

Ord way made his pages short; each bore not 
more than a paragraph, so that the copy-readers 
might get the stuff up-stairs to the linotype 
machines in quick 4 4 takes.” As he drew out page 
after page, he dropped the paper where it fell. 


150 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


and the boy picked it up and carried it to the 
copy-desk. Chapin had scanned the first few 
pages, over the shoulders of the copy-readers. 
He and Worth were willing to trust Ordway, and 
haste was now the great need. There was more 
than a column to write, and the paper must 
have it. 

But Chapin came out after a time and stood 
watching the typewriter. As he stood there, the 
machine stopped suddenly and Ordway seemed 
to sway in his seat. He caught the desk with 
his hands for a second, steadied himself, and went 
on, his fingers hesitating for a moment and then 
increasing their pace until they were racing 
again in the old way. A chalky whiteness deep- 
ened in his face, and his lips showed red. 

Chapin stepped to his side. “ Ordway,” he 
said, “ let the story go. We need it, but we need 
you more. Don’t kill yourself over it. You’re 
not in condition to finish.” 

Ordway ’s hands dropped from the keyboard 
and he looked up at the city editor. His eyes 
seemed sunk deep in his head and the face was 
almost like a dead man’s. For forty-eight hours 
he had scarcely slept; for weeks he had given no 
heed to daylight or darkness, nor to hunger or 


FAST TIME 


151 


thirst. He had lived and worked for the Record, 
and he had got what he prized most — results. 
Even now, at the last minute, he was still 
getting results. 

“ Don’t discourage me, Chapin,” he said; 
“ don’t stop me now.” 

Then his hands went back to the keys again, 
and the fast rattle of letter following letter resumed 
its rhythmic sway. Chapin stood watching him 
a minute; then he turned to Donald. Handing 
the boy a coin, he said: 

“ Go down-stairs and get some brandy, and 
be quick about it.” 

Donald was half way to the door when Ordway 
himself stopped him. 

“ Wait! ” he called, and his voice was weak. 
“Wait! don’t get brandy. You know, Chapin, 
that I never use liquor. If you get anything, 
get coffee. Get it black — as black as you can.” 

A few minutes later Donald was back with the 
coffee — a pitcher of it, as strong and bitter as 
he could get it. Worth, who had come out to 
join Chapin, poured a cup of it, and Ordway 
paused long enough to drain it to the bottom. 

“Thanks!” he said, as he touched the keys 
again. “ Thanks ! I feel like a fighting-cock now.” 


152 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY -BOY 


There was the trace of a smile on his face for 
an instant, and Chapin said, as he watched him: 
“ You’re as game as a fighting-cock, anyhow.” 

The reporters who had covered the fire were 
back by this time, and Or d way’s typewriter was 
not the only one that was racing. But the strain 
back of the other machines, heavy though it may 
have been, was not the terrific thing that kept 
Ordway’s keys jumping. But now, in spite of 
the strain, his speed was slackening. He was 
nearing the end. 

“ More coffee? ” said Worth, passing the cup 
again. “ Better close it up quick, Ordway; 
you’re almost done for. Break it off.” 

“ Yes,” said Ordway, making a blind stab 
at the keys, “ I’m about through, Worth; I’m 
on the last lap.” 

The type-bars stuck together; scarcely seeing 
them, he tried to push them apart. He daubed 
his fingers with ink, got a sheet of paper awry on 
the roll, and tangled the ribbon. Then Chapin 
took him by the arm authoritatively. 

“Stop!” he said. “Stop! we’ve got enough. 
We’re on the dead-line — don’t you see? ” 

He pointed to the clock, but Ordway did not 
look. He knew that to see the clock — or any- 


FAST TIME 


153 


thing else, for that matter — was a task quite 
beyond him. 

“ All right, Chapin,” he said; “ I’m ready to 
quit. How does she read, Chapin? What sort 
of story did I — ” 

He leaned back in his chair and his head fell 
to one side. Worth sprang and caught him, and 
among them they laid him flat on the floor. The 
Record office did not boast any sofas. It was not 
a place where men stretched themselves at their 
ease ordinarily. 

“ Water! ” said Chapin. “ Water — quick! ” 

Donald brought a glass from the cooler and 
the city editor poured it over the prostrate 
man’s face. Ordway opened his eyes. “ Quit 
it! ” he said. “ Quit it, Chapin. Let me alone.” 

So they stood back for a time, and gradually 
Ordway came into his full senses. Worth helped 
him up, and he sat in his chair. 

“ Now,” he said deprecatingly, “ you fellows 
go home. I’m all right, and please don’t make 
an infant of me any more. I’m a bit done up for 
lack of sleep, but I’ll show up to-morrow as 
chipper as ever. Just let me rest here a few min- 
utes and I’ll go home myself.” 

They did leave him for a time — all except 


154 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


Donald, who had something he was determined 
to say. 

“ Mr. Ordway,” he began, in a voice with a 
quaver in it, “ Mr. Ordway, this affair was all 
my fault, I know. I made a mistake when I got 
into Duff’s cab, and I’ve caused you and every- 
body else all this trouble. I might have known 
better, but I didn’t. I suppose I’ll lose my po- 
sition because of it, for Chapin and Worth and 
the managing editor don’t believe what I told 
them. But I don’t care so much for that, Mr. 
Ordway, if only you believe me. I did the only 
thing I could think of to do when I tossed your 
copy out of the window. I didn’t propose to let 
Duff make a traitor of me, and even if you hadn’t 
come back to-night, and we’d lost the story al- 
together, I’d have felt that I did the only thing 
I could do. It’s the solemn truth, Mr. Ordway 
— every word I told Chapin.” 

Ordway sat up straight and something of the 
old fire came back in his eyes. 

“ Chapin didn’t discharge you, did he? ” he 
demanded. 

“ No,” said Donald dubiously, “ but Mr. Law- 
son said things — ” 

“Then never mind!” broke in the other. 


FAST TIME 


155 


“ Never mind what Lawson said. Why, I’d 
quit the Record myself in a minute if they were 
to throw you out for a thing of this kind. But 
they won’t — never fear. If they don’t believe 
you now, they will when I talk to them. They’ll 
have to believe you.” 

Then Ordway showed that he was not alto- 
gether done up, by slapping his desk in a very 
respectable way. 

“ See here! ” he said. “ I’d rather work myself 
black in the face forty times, as I have to-night, 
and faint away like an old woman, and sprawl 
over the floor every night like a drunken man, 
than to have you give up a line of my copy to a 
scoundrel like this fellow Duff. Believe you? 
Of course I believe you! And by the gods, if 
any man in this office dares to doubt you, he’ll 
have to settle with me! I haven’t been brought 
up not to know truth from hypocrisy. Now go 
along home and get to sleep.” 

Donald, looking up with a great joy in his 
eyes, saw Chapin standing just over him. But 
the boy merely said good night and passed out. 

The last edition was on the presses as he reached 
the street, and the crash of the giant machines 
shook the sidewalk. It was still night, but the 


156 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


city — which never quite slept — was well astir, 
Wagons rattled noisily over the pavements, 
scores of night workers were on their way home, 
groups of newsboys were gathering. From now 
on, the fever in the veins of New York would grow 
until another evening came to quiet it for a time. 
But the fever in the boy’s brain had been in- 
stantly cooled by Ordway’s words, and, as he 
descended the Subway stairs to go home, the life 
of the metropolis was sweet again. 


CHAPTER XIV 


DEEP LAID PREPARATIONS 

EORGE WATERS, strangely enough, had 
taken to practicing on the typewriter. It 
was a very laudable thing, of course; it was a 
thing that any ambitious boy in a newspaper 
office would do. Donald had been doing it ever 
since he entered the city room, and, at various 
times, other boys in the Record office had done it. 
The only strange thing about it was that George 
Waters had taken to it. It would not have been 
much stranger if Felix himself had attempted it. 
George and Felix were about on a par when it 
came to ambition. 

George, however, had more groundwork for 
an education than Felix had. He had spent several 
years in the grammar school and knew the rudi- 
ments of composition. If Donald could learn to 
operate the typewriter, so could he. This fact 
he proclaimed with some braggadocio, as he tan- 
gled up the keys and made odd words on the paper. 
And if Donald could become a reporter, so could 


158 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


he. He didn’t intend to sit back and let anybody 
beat him to the goal. 

This was queer talk for George, and Felix’s 
attitude in the matter was almost as queer. In- 
stead of sneering — which would have better 
befitted his nature — he viewed George’s attempts 
with indulgent humor. He made light and play- 
ful attacks, instead of malicious ones. “ George,” 
he said, for instance, “ you play that thing like a 
hippopotamus would play a piano. How long 
would it take a hippo to grind out 4 Yankee 
Doodle ’ ? How long, Kirk? About as long as 
it’ll take Georgie to write a half-column news- 
story.” 

Then Felix, regarding this as a very good joke, 
was convulsed. George took it all with astonish- 
ing good nature, and went on with his practice. 
“ Go ’long, Felix,” he said, “ and train your 
hippo. I’ll race him any old day.” 

These little passages, however, occurred only 
when Donald was around. In private, Felix 
manifested an extraordinary interest in his friend’s 
undertaking. When Donald was absent from the 
office, Felix would stand over George and offer 
advice freely, urging him to greater efforts. Felix 
himself was quite ignorant of a typewriting 


DEEP LAID PREPARATIONS 159 


machine, but he criticized the other boy with his 
usual bluntness. 

44 That won’t do,” he observed one day, as he 
pulled a sheet of paper from the machine George 
was at work upon. 44 That’ll never do, Georgie. 
If you don’t do better’n that, I’ll have to get a 
new secretary.” 

44 What’s the matter with it? ” demanded 
George. 

44 What’s right about it? you mean,” retorted 
Felix. 44 Nothin’s right. You’ve got too many 
capitals; they ain’t in the right place. That’s 
one thing that ain’t right.” 

44 How do you know? ” asked George. 

Felix sniffed. 

“ Ain’t I been in the city room long ’nough to 
know capitals? ” he inquired, with sarcasm. 

44 Yes,” agreed George, 44 but that’s not sayin’ 
you do know ’em. What capitals do you see 
here that ain’t right, Felix? Put your finger on 
’em.” 

Felix scrutinized the page with great delibera- 
tion. 

44 Well,” he said, 44 when you are writin’ to a 
man and sayin’ 4 Dear Sir,’ the 4 sir ’ hadn’t 
ought to be a capital.” 


160 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


“ Why not? ” said George, with some heat. 

“ Because,” explained Felix, with an air of 
deep wisdom, “ it ain’t the beginnin’ of a sentence. 
Ain’t you learned yet that a sentence don’t begin 
in the middle o’ two words? ” 

George took the page and regarded it contem- 
platively. The question was a little puzzling, 
and after he had duly considered it he remarked: 

“If it ain’t the beginnin’ of a sentence, what 
is it? ” 

Felix regained possession of the paper. It was 
his turn now to contemplate. This he did with 
a puzzled face. 

“ Parse it,” suggested George, with a malig- 
nant grin. “ If you know what it is, parse it.” 

“ Do it yourself,” snapped Felix. “ I ain’t in 
that business. I tell you it hadn’t ought to be 
a capital. Ain’t that enough? ” 

“ No,” declared the other, “ it ain’t. I’ll 
prove it. I’ll ask Mr. Ordway.” 

Ordway was at his desk in a further corner of 
the room, and George reached for the sheet of 
paper with the intention of submitting the point 
of dispute to arbitration. But instantly an ex- 
pression of amazement and alarm came into 
Felix’s face. He drew back quickly, crumpled 


DEEP LAID PREPARATIONS 161 


the page in his hand, and kept his fist clenched 
upon it. 

44 George,” he almost hissed, bending forward, 
44 you’re a fool! If you ever ask Ordway or any- 
body else a question like that, the game is off. 
Do you hear? Do you want to put the whole 
office next? Ain’t you got no sense? ” 

For a moment George accepted this rebuke with 
the meekness he commonly displayed whenever 
Felix grew vehement. Then he asked, with a 
show of returning spirit: 

44 What’s the difference? Don’t Ordway know 
I’m practicin’ on the typewriter? ” 

44 Of course,” agreed Felix, 44 but he don’t 
know that you’re writin’ 4 Dear Sir.’ He ain’t 
goin’ to know it, either.” 

44 Oh, well,” returned George, with a sigh, 
44 whatever you say, Felix, has got to go. But 
if I don’t ask him, how’m I going to find out if 
it ain’t the beginnin’ of a sentence? ” 

Felix threw the crumpled sheet into a waste- 
basket. 

44 I’ll tell you how,” he said; 44 I’ll keep my eyes 
open, and when I see a letter on the old man’s 
desk, I’ll look. That’s how. Every letter has 
got 4 Dear Sir ’ to it. See? ” 


162 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


44 All right,” assented George, 44 but till you get 
a chance to snoop, I’m goin’ to write it like it 
was the beginnin’ of a sentence.” 

44 Seein’ that it’s only temporary,” Felix con- 
sented reluctantly, “ you can do it. But I tell 
you, Georgie, we’ve got to do this thing right if 
we’re goin’ to do it at all. You’ve got to practice 
harder. There ain’t goin’ to be no hitch this 
time.” 

George did not reply on the instant, but ran 
his fingers over the typewriter thoughtfully. 

44 Maybe we’d better not do it,” he said, at 
length. 44 It’s a little risky, Felix. We might get 
caught.” 

Felix’s face darkened into a very ugly scowl. 

44 Gettin’ cold feet again, are you? ” he snarled 
in a low voice, close to the other boy’s ear. 44 Get- 
tin’ cold feet? You ain’t got the nerve of a rabbit! 
It ain’t risky at all if it’s done right. We ain’t 
got caught yet, have we? We done a few things, 
too, I guess. Oh, you done your share, and you 
ain’t goin’ to quit now. Do you want me to get 
you fired to-day, Georgie? ” 

44 No,” protested George disconsolately, 44 of 
course not. If I get fired, my dad’ll break my 
back.” 


DEEP LAID PREPARATIONS 163 


“ Then go ahead and ’tend to business,” con- 
cluded Felix, with his usual triumphant air. 
George was his plaything and easy tool. 

Just then Chapin’s buzzer called loudly, and 
Felix responded. Some mission took him out of 
the office, and no sooner had he gone than the 
buzzer sounded again, with a quick, imperative 
note that made George jump in a hurry. He, too, 
left the office on an errand up-stairs for Chapin. 

The moment both boys were out of the room, 
Ordway got up. To all appearances, he had been 
working steadily at his desk, with no thought 
for anything but the matters before him. But 
now he crossed the room quickly to the desk 
where George had been trying his hand at the 
typewriter. Without any hesitation or compunc- 
tion, he stooped and took from the waste-basket 
the sheet of paper that had caused the dispute 
between Felix and his co-conspirator. Smoothing 
it out in his hands, he scanned it, and a puzzled 
light came in his eyes. Then he crumpled it 
again and tossed it back to the waste-basket. 

A little later in the day, however, Ordway once 
more repaired to the desk, in the absence of this 
fine brace of youths, and again obtained posses- 
sion of the page from the waste-basket. It was 


164 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


evident that the matter had been revolving in 
his analytical brain, and that some logical train 
of thought had begun to evolve itself. He may 
have had neither cause nor effect upon which to 
work, but somewhere in the incident there was 
a foundation to build upon. And here was the 
first bit of concrete evidence that his keen eyes 
had as yet produced. With Ordway, documentary 
evidence was esteemed very valuable, however 
slight. 

So now, after glancing at the page again, he 
folded it carefully and put it away in his inside 
waistcoat pocket, where many another important 
document had reposed until the time had come to 
produce it. 


CHAPTER XV 


A SPEEDY AUTOMOBILE 

GREAT hurricane swept the Atlantic coast 
one day in June. From early morning un- 
til late at night the wind howled and shrieked 
up the bay as if it meant to blow away every 
spar and mast in the harbor. It did carry 
away more than one; it parted many an anchor 
cable; it dragged vessels from their moorings 
and crashed them into each other; it kept every 
ship from venturing out, and brought terror to 
all vessels that chanced to be outside trying to 
get in. 

There are days in newspaper offices when some 
predominating piece of news dwarfs everything 
else. The customary routine is lost sight of. 
The financial editor — ordinarily a man of much 
consequence — meekly subsides and gives up 
half his space without protest; the dramatic 
editor quietly resigns himself to the inevitable; 
the literary men are not in the reckoning at all, 
so far as their customary columns are concerned; 


166 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


the political staff, the police reporters, the do- 
mestic-page writers, all know that they must 
sacrifice their wares ruthlessly. When a newspaper 
must print four or five pages on one piece of news, 
there is no use protesting. These department 
heads don’t waste their breath with remon- 
strances, but turn in, very often, and help out the 
local staff. 

This was the situation on the Record. The 
financial editor had left Wall Street to his assist- 
ant and had jumped out to Fire Island, where 
a liner was reported aground. Mowbray had 
dropped politics and taken charge of the men who 
were covering the damage along the New Jersey 
shores. The sporting editor was doing special 
assignments on the waterfront, and the beauty 
expert — the young woman who answered anxious 
inquirers and old subscribers on the subjects of 
freckles and bright eyes — was interviewing the 
weather man and explaining on paper how it all 
came about. 

Donald had been summoned to the office early 
in the forenoon, by special messenger. So had 
all the rest of the force. The ordinary hours, 
half day and half night, were extended to cover 
as much of daylight and as much of darkness as 


A SPEEDY AUTOMOBILE 


167 


might be necessary. Donald had found his work- 
ing hours very elastic, but never a complaint had 
he uttered. Complaints of this sort were rare on 
the Record, where loyalty to the paper and eager- 
ness to get the news made labor and self-sacrifice 
only a pleasure. A hard day it was for every one, 
but night found the field well covered, and the 
busy typewriters were fast translating the day’s 
events into words. Those typewriters never 
finished their tasks, for tragedy and comedy came 
along in fresh waves to keep them going. 

The wind died down about ten o’clock, and it 
seemed as if everything had happened that could. 
But soon afterward Chapin came out of his 
sanctum with the brisk air that meant work for 
somebody. 

“ Ordway,” he said, “ a big ship is reported 
wrecked off Long Beach. There’s no help for it: 
you must run down there with some men and get 
the story. I’ll order a fast automobile for you; 
there’s a good road all the way. Go to Rockville 
Center and then shoot south, straight to the beach. 
It’s a run of not more than thirty miles, and after 
you get through Brooklyn you can let her spin. 
Better take Allport and Campbell, and ” — here 
Chapin swept the copy-bench with his eyes — 


168 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


“ it might be well to have Donald along. He 
might help you somehow. In all probability, 
Ordway, you’ll have to ’phone the story in, and 
we’ll handle it here. You’re not likely to find a 
night telegraph office near by, and it’ll be too late 
to get back. If the story’s worth it, I’ll schedule 
a column and a half. We’re jammed up tight, 
but I’ll have to make room for it.” 

Then he turned suddenly to Felix, whose face 
had taken on a look very unpleasant to see. 

“ Get down-stairs quick,” he commanded, 
“and order a dozen sandwiches put up. Get a 
bottle of coffee, too, and some cups.” 

To Ordway, he added: “You won’t find any 
lunch-counters down there at night. A bite may 
come in handy.” 

This, perhaps, was the most unwelcome task 
Felix had ever received. It was bad enough to 
sit there and see Donald picked out deliberately 
for a trip which Felix would have liked immensely 
to get, but it was almost unbearable to be sent 
out, like an ordinary messenger boy, to get sand- 
wiches for Donald to eat. For a moment Felix 
seemed on the point of rebellion; then he rose 
slowly, his sullen face averted, and obeyed. 

A few minutes later the little party entered a 


A SPEEDY AUTOMOBILE 


169 


great touring-car that drew up along the curb on 
Park Row. “ Let her go,” said Ordway, and the 
chauffeur threw in his clutch. They swung around 
through a tangle of streets until they came to 
the Williamsburg Bridge, across which they 
rolled, far above the East River. The lights of 
many vessels were twinkling, and the water 
sparkled with the tinted reflections. Along the 
Brooklyn water-front rose a dark sky-line of huge 
factories, studded here and there with electric 
eyes, but for the most part mere silhouettes 
against the soft glow that hung over Brooklyn. 
To Donald, it seemed as if they were entering a 
mountain range of many peaks and jutting angles. 

In a little while, however, the mountain range 
resolved itself into a wonderful maze of buildings 
and streets, some dark and deserted, some bril- 
liant with light and life. It was almost incom- 
prehensible how the chauffeur could pilot his car 
through this labyrinth of twisting thoroughfares, 
and bring it out at any point in particular, but 
after a time the buildings began to grow smaller, 
and then fewer, and the lights less brilliant. The 
car ran through long stretches of dwellings and 
past row after row of two-family houses that had 
grown up like mushrooms on the bare, unshaded 


170 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


plain. And finally they were out in the open, 
with only occasional shadows looming vaguely 
to show where the buildings were. For the most 
part, there were only reaches of gloom, that might 
have held a primitive wood or an empty desert. 

They went fast. The powerful lights showed 
a clear road unfolding ahead of them in a band 
of brilliance. It fascinated Donald to watch it 
unrolling itself like a mighty spool of thread. 
There seemed no end to it; the faster they went, the 
more of it there was to lead them on. Sometimes 
it turned, and for a moment the light would dart 
off into a field of some scrubby waste, or, it might 
be, rest for an instant on a house and show them 
that this Long Island blackness was not tenant- 
less. Once, at a sharp bend, the flashing eyes of 
the car searched out a little graveyard, but 
quickly left it again in its lonely shadows. 

And then a speck showed itself in the center of 
the far-reaching ray. They held it in sight and 
grew upon it until they saw it to be a car like their 
own. After a time, when it had come full into 
their vision, Ordway remarked: 

“ It’s the World’s party, bound for the wreck, 
like ourselves. There’s Jerry Hackett on the back 
seat, or I’m much mistaken.” 


A SPEEDY AUTOMOBILE 


171 


They slowed down a bit, and waved friendly 
greetings ahead, which were returned with cheer- 
ful alacrity. Almost immediately afterward, from 
around a turn they had just taken, a flood of 
light came upon them at the rear. Some one 
shouted: “Hello, Ordway! How are you, old 
chap? ” 

“ That’s the Beacon’s crew,” said Ordway, 
waving his hat in response. “ The woods out 
this way will be as full of newspaper men to-night 
as they used to be of savages. We’ll not be lone- 
some; that’s certain.” 

For a few minutes the Beacon car made a 
playful attempt to pass them, but gave up the 
exploit after a great whirring of wheels and the 
stirring of vast clouds of dust. Donald clung to 
his seat in some terror, expecting to see the 
monster jump a fence or turn a somersault 
any moment. But it slowed down presently, as 
the competing automobile dropped in behind 
again 

“ There’s no use, fellows,” Ordway called back, 
laughingly; “ you might as well keep your proper 
place behind the Record.” 

“ All right, Ordway,” a voice answered frankly; 
“ you’ve beat us this time. But you know there’s 


172 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


nothing like trying, as the old man says. Who’ve 
you got in your crowd? ” 

Ordway told him. 44 Who’ve you got? ” he 
asked, in return. 

“ Well,” laughed the other, who was quite 
invisible, back of the blinding light of his car, 
44 I’m the principal one, of course. In addition 
to 4 yours truly,’ there’s Smalley, Wallach, and 
Duff. You know Smalley and Wallach, but I’m 
not sure about Duff. He joined our little circle 
last week. Duff’s — ” 

44 I’ve met Duff,” Ordway called back, rather 
sharply. He had no desire to continue the con- 
versation. Instead, he leaned forward and said 
to the chauffeur: 

44 Let her out; the World’s car is getting away 
from us.” 

And the chauffeur did let her out with a plunge 
that almost took Donald’s breath. For a minute 
they gained rapidly on the automobile ahead, 
but the World’s men did not mean to let any one 
go by, and the car showed its heels in a pretty 
sprint. Then a bend in the road necessitated 
caution, and all the cars settled down to a more 
decorous pace. 

44 That fellow Duff,” observed Ordway to 


A SPEEDY AUTOMOBILE 


173 


Donald, “ bobs up like the bad penny. So the 
Beacon has got him this time, has it? It would be 
interesting to know by what measure of false pre- 
tense he got in there. The Beacon’s standards 
ordinarily are well defined.” Or d way put a hand 
on Donald’s shoulder. “ I hope, for Duff’s sake,” 
he added, “ that I don’t get too near him to- 
night.” 

The car slowed down for a village — quite 
soundly sleeping — and then turned abruptly 
to the southward and sped toward the sea. It 
was not long before the fresher breath of the ocean 
blew in their faces. Then they ran for two or 
three miles among inlets and channels, until they 
seemed to be far out in the sea itself, skimming 
along in a boat instead of an automobile. But 
presently they did reach the ocean — a vast 
mystery stretching out ahead of them. 

The wind had died almost to a calm, but the 
swell raised by the gale was still rolling, and the 
breakers were beating on the sand with roar after 
roar. Up and down the beach were many lights, 
and, amid them, the forms of men. And then, 
when the car had taken them a little further along 
on the hard, level rim of the deep, they saw, a 
short distance off shore, the lights on the wreck. 


174 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


The life-savers were at work, and with breathless 
excitement Donald watched the frightened pas- 
sengers as they came in on the breeches-buoy. 
There was an eery mysticism about it that thrilled 
him. As each person was landed, it seemed as 
if a strange soul had come from some unknown 
world out there in the dark, tumbling waters. 

For a time, Or d way and his assistants were 
absent, gathering, piece by piece, the story of the 
wreck and the names of the rescued. Then Ord- 
way touched him on the shoulder. 

“ Here’s a bunch of notes,” he said. “ I wish 
you’d hop into the car and have the driver take 
you back to the little tavern we passed at the 
forks of the road. The nearest available telephone 
is there. The wind, I’m told, has leveled all the 
lines nearer. When you get Chapin or Worth, 
just read these notes over the wire, and say that 
I’ll have some more shortly.” 

So the car sped back down the beach and out 
along the water-hedged highway until it stopped 
at the tavern. When the boy went inside, Duff 
sat guard over the telephone. 

“ Nothing doing,” he said coolly. “ I’ve 
bought up this ’phone for the Beacon. You’ll 
have to go somewhere else.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


DUFF AS A WATCHDOG 

TAONALD stood for a minute looking at Duff 
in surprise. The latter had drawn a chair 
up to the telephone-booth and was sitting in it. 
In his hands he held a heavy walking-stick as 
a weapon, and his countenance bore a lofty air 
of authority. 

“ You might as well run along,” he continued, 
leaning back and resting the cane across his 
knees significantly. “ This ’phone, I tell you, 
belongs to the Beacon*” 

“ You’re not using it,” said Donald. 

“ Not just this minute,” assented Duff, “ but 
it’s reserved, like a seat in the theater. See? 
We’ve bought the exclusive right to use it. For 
to-night, it belongs to us.” 

The boy looked at his bundle of notes, and 
then at the telephone-booth, in some dismay. 

“ But you can’t possibly use it all night,” he 
protested. “ I won’t be more than ten minutes 
sending in this stuff. It’s got to get in.” 


176 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


“ Oh, has it? ” Duff was sarcastic. “ Well, 
it’s up to you, then, to find a way. I’ve found 
a way to get the Beacon stuff in, and I’m not 
interested any more in the Record. See? ” 

And then he added viciously : “ See here, kid, 
you’ve got nerve coming here and asking favors. 
You got me fired from the Star by refusing a 
a simple little favor I asked of you. Now get 
out of here! ” 

“ Who’d you rent this telephone of? ” de- 
manded Donald, ignoring the implied threat. 

“ Of the man who keeps this hotel,” said Duff. 
“ If you doubt it. I’ll prove it to you.” 

He beckoned to the clerk back of the 
counter. 

“ Did I pay ten dollars for the exclusive use of 
of this ’phone for the night? ” he asked. “ Please 
inform this boy.” 

“ That’s the understanding,” the clerk agreed, 
and walked away. Duff regarded Donald in 
triumph. 

“ Now, if the Record, or any other newspaper, 
wants a ’phone to-night,” he observed, “ it can 
go hunt one.” 

“ I don’t believe you’ve any right to the ’phone,” 
declared Donald warmly. “ This is a public place, 


DUFF AS A WATCHDOG 


177 


isn’t it? The ’phone belongs to the telephone 
company.” 

“ Does it? ” said Duff significantly. “ Well, 
if you really believe so, just try to use it.” 

The folly of attempting to do so was apparent. 
The boy had already felt the force of Duff’s 
muscles. He had no inclination to match his 
own against them again. This time the contempti- 
ble Duff had the best of the situation. After hesi- 
tating a moment, the lad turned and walked out. 
The chauffeur suggested that they go back up 
the road a mile or two toward New York and 
try their luck at any house they might come 
to. 

There seemed nothing else to do, so Donald 
got in. At the first house a dog came dashing 
out at him and he fled in a panic. At the next 
house he was unable to arouse any one. The 
third trial promised to be successful. Although 
somewhat disgruntled over being disturbed, the 
head of the household let the boy in and showed 
him the instrument. In vain, however, did he 
try to talk with the Record. He could hear Cha- 
pin’s voice demanding over and over what was 
wanted, but Chapin, evidently, could hear noth- 
ing except the ringing of the bell. In despair. 


178 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


Donald hung up the receiver, after fifteen fruit- 
less minutes. 

Some distance further along was a country 
store. From the flat above, they aroused a woman 
after furious knocking in which the chauffeur 
obligingly joined. But she told them roughly 
that the wire was down and the telephone useless. 

They got the same answer at two other places. 
Donald held his watch to the car’s lamps. It 
was one o’clock. They had come quite a number 
of miles from the scene of the wreck, and had 
lost much valuable time. If they went further, 
they might succeed in getting a telephone; they 
might not. 

“ We’ll go back for instructions,” decided 
Donald, “ and we’ll go back fast.” 

As they passed the tavern again they could 
see Duff still standing guard like a watchdog. 
He had repulsed several newspaper men, as they 
learned afterward, and had come near breaking 
the head of a venturesome scribe who had asserted 
his intention of using the ’phone. Backed up by 
the tavern clerk, he had things all his own way. 
He threatened not only personal punishment upon 
any person who might attempt to gain the in- 
strument by force, but legal action. The ’phone 


DUFF AS A WATCHDOG 


179 


was leased, he made it clear, and any one who set 
foot in the booth was a trespasser under the law. 
He might be jailed for assault, or shot with im- 
punity. To emphasize this latter assertion, 
Duff had displayed a revolver. 

Back at the beach, Donald had some difficulty 
in finding Ordway, who had gone to a fisherman’s 
shanty a mile away to talk with some of the res- 
cued passengers. More valuable time was lost, 
but at length Ordway returned and heard the 
boy’s story. 

“ Come along,” he said; “ I reckon we’ll find 
a telephone somewhere. With a fast automobile, 
good roads, and a wide section of Long Island at 
our disposal, we ought to get hold of an instru- 
ment that’s in working condition. Hop into the 
car, Don; we’ll do the best we can. I’ve seen 
chaps before who made a specialty of bottling 
up telephones. It’s an old game. Once, when 
I was new in the business, there was a big fellow 
named Hookman who worked for the Ledger, 
and who went around corking up telephones 
whenever he could. I was in college then, but I 
was doing some special work for the Record up at 
the President’s summer home on the Sound. Some 
developments came late at night, and I had only 


180 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


a few minutes in which to get the stuff in. To 
my dismay, Hookman had the only available 
telephone, and he was pretending to talk to his 
office so he could keep me out until the dead- 
line was passed.” 

As Ordway talked he and Donald had got 
aboard, and the car was spinning down the beach 
toward the road. It was a great relief to the boy 
to find himself free of the responsibility that had 
weighed so heavily upon him, and to feel that 
the big, capable, self-confident Ordway was there 
beside him. 

“ But Hookman didn’t do it, did he? ” Don- 
ald asked the question with perfect assurance that 
he would get a negative answer. “ Hookman 
didn’t keep you out, did he? ” 

Ordway laughed. “ That’s the worst part of it,” 
he confessed. “Yes, he did. He held the tele- 
phone until the Record had gone to press, and 
then he calmly walked out and laughed at me.” 

“ And you didn’t get the story in at all? ” 
asked the boy, in astonishment. It was almost 
incredible that Ordway should have failed. 

“ No, I didn’t get it in at all. I was scooped, 
and scooped badly. But when I went back to 
Yale, I told the fellows about Hookman. The 


DUFF AS A WATCHDOG 


181 


next thing I heard, a dozen of the boys had gone 
down to New York, kidnaped him in an automo- 
bile, tied him hand and foot, and brought him to 
New Haven. There they put him in a telephone- 
booth and kept him all night, giving him a little 
air now and then for policy’s sake. In the morn- 
ing they let him go, telling him that if he ever 
repeated the trick on a college fellow who was 
working his way through an education, they 
would put him in a booth for a week. He never 
did, so far as I know.” 

Donald remarked that a dose of such treatment 
might do Duff some good, but Ordway only said 
that since he wasn’t any longer in college he 
couldn’t look to the boys for such backing. Sooner 
or later, he added, Duff would get his just 
deserts. 

“ I’d like to see him get them to-night,” sug- 
gested Donald 

“ There was another chap called Snooks,” 
Ordway went on, taking no notice of the boy’s 
hint. “ I’ve forgotten whether that was his 
real name, or a nickname. Anyhow, Snooks 
worked for the Morning Mirror. On late assign- 
ments he had an exasperating habit of buying 
up a telephone, just as Duff has done. You have 


182 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


discovered how hard it is to get hold of a ’phone 
sometimes, in the night. I’ve seen the time often 
when I’d have given ten or twenty dollars will- 
ingly for the use of an instrument.” 

The automobile was heading northward now, 
skimming along at a fast clip in the direction of 
the tavern where Duff held the fort. Ordway 
scanned the road — reaching out into the glow 
of the lights — and told the driver to hustle 
along faster. Then he resumed his narrative. 

“ Snooks had the most remarkable faculty of 
any fellow I ever knew for finding telephones. 
He seemed to make the art a specialty. He was 
the bane of my life on late stories. It was ten 
to one, when I arrived at a telephone in a mighty 
rush, along about the dead-line, that Snooks 
would be there. If he was, I knew that my next 
move would be to hunt up another ’phone. No 
matter how short the message Snooks had for 
his office, he would stay at the instrument for 
an interminable time. It was a despicable form 
of petty shrewdness. He wasn’t keen enough to 
dig up good lively ‘ beats ’ and get them to his 
paper legitimately. His idea of a scoop was simply 
to prevent his fellow newspaper men from getting 
their stuff to their offices. 


DUFF AS A WATCHDOG 


183 


“ Well, one night a fireworks factory blew up 
in Harlem. It was one of the hardest stories I 
ever covered in a short time, for many people 
were hurt for blocks around. When I got to a 
telephone — a lonesome slot-machine instrument 
in an empty trolley-car waiting-room — there 
was Snooks. He had stuck up a notice: 4 Private 
Telephone.’ 

44 Another chap, from the Herald, had arrived 
just ahead of me. Like myself, he had gathered 
all that he could about the disaster, and was in 
a rush to reach his office by wire. It was after 
two o’clock, and time was precious. When I 
entered the room, he and Snooks were having 
a wordy battle, but Snooks had the booth. He 
claimed he was having trouble to get his office, and 
when we hammered on the door he said things 
I’ll not repeat. 

44 The Herald chap called me outside. 4 If 
you’ll hunt up another ’phone and send in my 
stuff as well as your own,’ he said, 4 I’ll fix 
Snooks.’ 

44 1 agreed, and he turned over to me all the 
notes he had made. You see, the right sort 
of fellows trust each other, and often work to- 
gether on difficult assignments that aren’t ex- 


184 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


elusive. I scurried off, routed out a private 
family, and got my stuff in — to both the Record 
and Herald. Then I went back to see what had 
happened to Snooks.” 

“ What had? ” asked Donald, breathlessly. 

Or d way laughed again. 

“ The Herald chap,” he said, “ had cut the 
wire just outside the building. Then he had 
lugged in a timber he’d found, and braced it against 
the booth door, so that Snooks was a prisoner. 
There was a lively time in progress, I can tell 
you. Snooks had smashed every bit of glass in 
the booth in his efforts to get out, but the Herald 
man stood guard with a club and kept him in. He 
stayed in, too, until the Mirror missed out on 
the story. It came out with a late extra, but 
Snooks was fired next day.” 

The car was nearing the tavern, and Ordway 
suddenly stood up. 

“ Pull up alongside the road and let me out 
here,” he said. 

They stopped near a clump of bushes, three 
hundred feet from the illuminated sign of the 
hotel. Ordway jumped out. 

“ Perhaps you’d better wait here, Don,” he said. 

But Donald was on the ground, too. 


DUFF AS A WATCHDOG 


185 


“ No, I’d rather go along,” he answered. “ I 
want to see what Duff gets.” Ord way’s inten- 
tions were now easy to guess. 

They walked in silence to the tavern steps. 
Then Ordway quickened his pace and went in 
with great strides. The place was empty except 
for Duff and the clerk. The latter had drawn a 
chair near the telephone booth and was chatting 
with his patron. The ten dollars, no doubt, had 
gone into his own pocket. 

The two had heard no sound until Ordway ’s 
quick steps came on the boards of the porch. 
Then Duff leaped to his feet. 

“ Keep off! ” he cried, as he saw the big Record 
man come striding in. “ Keep off, Ordway! 
this ’phone is leased.” 

But Ordway did not hesitate a second. He 
crossed the room, straight toward the booth, 
and Duff raised his heavy cane. 

“Stop!” the latter commanded. “This tele- 
phone is private property, I tell you. You can’t 
use it! ” 

The tavern clerk, too, was standing. He was 
much larger than Duff, and muscular. But Ord- 
way paid no attention to him. It was Duff he 
was after. The latter’s cane descended with a 


186 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


swinging blow, but Ordway caught the arm that 
held it and checked its force. 

“Hold up, there!” shouted the clerk, ad- 
vancing. “ You get out o’ here, quick! ” 

For reply, Ordway caught Duff by the shoulders 
and whirled him around like a top. The cane fell 
to the floor with a clatter. In an instant Ord- 
way had removed a pistol from Duff’s hip pocket 
and transferred it to his own. The tavern clerk 
stopped short and stood looking on. Duff yelled 
at him for assistance, but the fellow didn’t like 
Ordway ’s way of doing things and preferred to 
keep out. At all events, he had the ten dollars 
in his pocket. Donald, standing back, saw him 
retreat a few steps and watch proceedings. 

“ Now,” said Ordway, having disarmed the 
struggling Duff, “ come with me.” 

He picked the infuriated man off the floor 
bodily and carried him out, kicking and fighting 
like an ugly child. Strong as Duff was, Ordway 
handled him with apparent ease. Down the 
steps he went with his burden, Donald following. 
On the other side of the road was a slant that 
dipped away into a salt-water marsh . The light from 
the hotel showed it to be coated with slimy muck. 
Into this Ordway dropped Duff with a splash. 



Ordway caught Duff by the shoulders and whirled him 
around like a top. Page 186. 







DUFF AS A WATCHDOG 


187 


Retracing his steps to the hotel, where the 
clerk stood on the porch in astonishment, Ordway 
remarked to the man: “ Your friend is in a little 
trouble across the way. Perhaps you might get 
over there and see if he needs you. He may re- 
quire brushing off.” 

Then, beckoning Donald, he went to the tele- 
phone-booth, took the boy inside with him, and 
closed the door. 

“ Now we’ll see,” he said cheerfully, “ if we 
can get Chapin or Worth.” 

Inside of a minute, the mysterious current 
bridged the thirty miles to New York. Chapin’s 
voice came over the wire clear and imperative. 
Ordway was at the instrument, but Donald could 
hear the quick questioning of the city editor. 
What had caused the delay? What sort of story 
was it? 

Then Ordway gave his facts, clear, concise, 
and fast. Some one at the other end took the 
notes, and Donald knew that the last edition would 
have the full story. 

As he finished, another automobile shot up to 
the tavern door and a group of reporters jumped 
out. Word of Duff’s “ lease ” had spread quickly, 
and a concerted attack had been planned. But 


188 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


it was wholly unneeded. Ordway relinquished 
the instrument with a smile. 

“ It didn’t need an army to gain Duff’s strong- 
hold,” he said. 

Duff himself had crept around to the back door 
of the tavern, where he was trying to scrape the 
mud off his clothes with a stick. It was quite an im- 
possible thing to do, however, for the oozing stuff 
coated him; it was down his neck, in his eyes and 
ears, and up his sleeves. 

Ordway and Donald rode back through the 
darkness to the scene of the wreck, for a second 
instalment of news. The mist from the ocean 
was turning to a heavy white fog, through which 
the lamps of the car seemed to cut out holes, like 
an auger’s. Their coats were wet with the damp- 
ness, and the boy shivered. 

“ Stretch out here on the back seat,” said 
Ordway, “ and I’ll throw this robe over you. 
You might as well take a nap. There’ll be noth- 
ing more to do of consequence to-night. The 
afternoon papers will be coming along before many 
hours to take up the thread of the story. We’ll 
start home about daylight.” 

“ I couldn’t sleep,” returned Donald, “ if I 
were to try ever so hard.” Then he added, in a 


DUFF AS A WATCHDOG 


189 


dubious tone: “ I’m afraid I haven’t been any 
help to-night, Mr. Ordway. Sometimes I think 
that I’ll never get to be of much consequence 
to the Record.” 

“ Anything is of consequence if it’s done right,” 
Ordway answered. “ And you’re learning.” He 
laughed again. 


CHAPTER XVII 


A MYSTERIOUS LETTER 

“ ]V TR. DONALD KIRK, 

IV A Record City Room, 

New York. 

Dear Sir: — Your terms are satisfactory. See 
me to-night at 10 o’clock at the same place, or 
let me know when and where. 

Yours truly, 

x y z” 

Donald was thoroughly astonished on a July 
day to get this letter, through the mail. It came 
in a plain envelope, but was written on a letter- 
head of the New York Inquirer, a morning news- 
paper that had its office further up Park Row. 
The signature, 4 4 X Y Z,” was as unintelligible 
to the boy as the rest of it. He had not talked 
with any one on the Inquirer with reference to 
44 terms ” about anything. Clearly, there was 
some mistake, but how it had come about he 
could not imagine. The writer of the letter must 


A MYSTERIOUS LETTER 


191 


have confused him with somebody else, he thought, 
but the whole thing was inexplicable. 

He sat on the copy-bench and re-read the letter 
many times. It was typewritten, and not par- 
ticularly well done, though that was not unusual 
in a newspaper letter. The mechanical part of 
typewriting, as Donald knew, often receives scant 
attention from newspaper men, especially if they 
perform the operation themselves. There were 
a number of erasures, and the missive was not 
the neat, business-like product that would have 
been turned out by a professional typist, but 
Donald had seen letters quite similar in appear- 
ance that had come from well-known newspaper 
writers. 

Felix and George Waters were engaged in con- 
versation, and did not seem to notice that Donald 
had a letter. Felix’s lack of curiosity was rather 
odd, but Donald was pleased over it. It was not 
always agreeable to answer questions and be 
called on to explain things. This letter, in par- 
ticular, was very difficult to explain. True, Fe- 
lix’s opinion upon it might have been interesting, 
but he was not asked to give it. 

When Chapin’s call sounded, Donald folded 
the letter and put it in his inside coat pocket as 


192 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


he answered the summons. He was sent far out 
toward the Bronx after photographs, and, as 
the Subway express train roared through the 
tunnel under the city, he took the strange letter 
out again and read and re-read it. It seemed an 
odd letter in more ways than one. In the first 
place, the superscription gave him a sense of age 
that he hadn’t had before. “ Mr. Donald Kirk,” 
made him feel almost like a grown man. He was 
getting along, true enough. And then the “ Dear 
Sir ” seemed a bit formal, considering that he 
wasn’t yet sixteen. He observed that the letter 
S had first been written in lower-case type, which 
had been imperfectly erased and a capital sub- 
stituted. 

And then he studied the body of the letter very 
thoughtfully. “ Your terms are satisfactory.” 
What could that mean? What terms? How 
could he, in any possible way, be connected with 
terms that might be either satisfactory or unsatis- 
factory to somebody on the Inquirer? “ See me 
to-night at the same place.” Well, what place? 
The writer, evidently, was referring to some pre- 
vious meeting, but there had been no such meet- 
ing. Somebody was badly mixed; that was cer- 
tain. 


A MYSTERIOUS LETTER 


193 


The next and last sentence was even more 
baffling. “ Let me know when and where,” it 
ran. How could he let somebody know, when the 
identity of that somebody was hidden under a 
mere “X YZ”? Why hadn’t the writer signed 
his name? What motive had he for conceal- 
ing it? 

All the way out and all the way back, Donald 
pondered this strange epistle, and grew uneasy 
over it. A suspicion formed itself in his mind 
that in some way he had been confused with 
somebody else in a questionable affair. He had 
heard of instances where newspapers had been 
betrayed by their own employes. One such case, 
in particular, had come to his notice, in which a 
boy in a composing-room had been supplying 
proofs to a rival newspaper. And now it looked 
to him very much as if there was something of 
this sort going on between the Record and In- 
quirer. He wondered, suddenly, if this letter 
could have been meant for Felix or George. It 
would not be hard to believe that either of these 
boys might be guilty of crooked work, for money. 
But if meant for either of them, why hadn’t it 
been addressed correctly? How could it come to 
him, and have his name on the envelope? 


194 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


This envelope he examined minutely. The fact 
that it was plain seemed to confirm his suspicions. 
The writer, apparently, wished to conceal the fact 
that the missive came from the Inquirer office; 
otherwise he would have used an Inquirer en- 
velope. That he had access to the stationery 
was proved by the letter-head. 

On reaching Park Row, Donald acted on a 
sudden resolution. He would go up to the In- 
quirer office and lay the letter before Mr. Gunni- 
son, the city editor. He would demand an expla- 
nation and wash his hands of the affair. 

This resolution, however, was only partly 
carried out. He had entered the Inquirer Build- 
ing and almost reached the elevator, when it 
occurred to him that Gunnison was not the man 
to be seen about it. If there were any devious 
dealings between persons on the two newspapers, 
his duty was to lay the matter before Chapin, 
not before the city editor of the Inquirer. 

This impulse relieved him mightily. He deter- 
mined to act upon it at once, turn the letter 
over to Chapin, and make known his suspicions. 
Then Chapin could do what he saw fit. Of course 
Donald would not mention the fact that he 
suspected Felix or George might be involved. 


A MYSTERIOUS LETTER 


195 


That was pure surmise; Chapin could find out, 
perhaps. 

He was leaving the Inquirer Building when he 
saw Chapin himself walking up Park Row. It 
was an odd coincidence, and he was startled a 
little. With such a letter in his pocket, he felt 
almost guilty to be seen leaving the office of 
a rival newspaper. Chapin saw him, of course, 
and, nodding, passed on. In spite of himself, 
the boy felt the blood tingling in his cheeks as he 
made his way back to the city room of the 
Record. 

The day was warm, and, as usual, he took off 
his coat and hung it on a peg high above the copy- 
bench. The furnishings of the Record office were 
by no means luxurious. Worth would not come 
on duty until six o’clock, and the city room was 
in charge of Chapin’s assistant. Donald had a 
mind at first to show him the letter and not wait 
for the city editor’s return. The possession of 
the document was like a hot coal in his pocket. 
But, on reflection, he determined to wait and 
lay the whole matter before Chapin himself. 

These thoughts were passing through his mind 
when he was sent to the exchange editor’s room 
in another part of the building. When he returned 


196 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


he saw that Chapin was again at his desk. Climb- 
ing on the bench, Donald reached into his coat 
pocket for the letter. It wasn’t there. 

In vain he searched every pocket again and 
again. He felt the lining over to make sure that 
it hadn’t slipped down through a hole. He ex- 
amined his waistcoat, and even felt in his trousers 
pockets. The letter was gone. 

“ What you lost? ” asked Felix, coming in 
just then from the copy-room and regarding 
Donald’s movements with evident curiosity. 

“ I’ve lost a letter,” returned the troubled boy, 
searching his coat again. “ I put it in my coat, 
and it’s disappeared.” 

“ The letter you had this afternoon? ” asked 
Felix. “ Who’s it from? ” 

Before Donald could answer, George reproved 
Felix. 

“ It ain’t polite to ask personal questions,” he 
said. “ Never mind who it’s from. Why don’t 
you help him find it? ” 

“ Why don’t you, yourself? ” demanded Felix. 

“ I am helping,” George declared. To prove it, 
he dropped to his hands and knees and began 
feeling about under the bench. 

“ It’s quite likely,” he said, “ that the letter’s 


A MYSTERIOUS LETTER 


197 


here on the floor somewhere. Felix, get down and 
help look.” 

“ It can’t be on the floor,” insisted Donald, 
feeling his coat over for the fifth time. 44 I put 
it here in my pocket. It couldn’t have got on 
the floor.” 

Felix was down on his knees now. 

“ Don’t say it couldn’t,” he observed. 44 There 
ain’t no such word. There ain’t anything that 
couldn’t be; that’s what the old man always says. 
Prob’bly you lost the letter when you thought 
you put it in your pocket. You ain’t always 
sure, you know.” 

Felix and George were remarkably obliging. 
They crawled about on all fours in the dust, and 
peeked and squinted under all the desks and into 
corners and crevices. Donald, nonplussed, helped 
them. He insisted, however, that the letter 
hadn’t been out of his pocket since he returned 
from his errand in upper New York. 

44 Then,” said Felix, getting up, with his knees 
and hands very much soiled, 44 you must ’a’ lost 
it on the street or in the Subway. Why don’t 
you call up the 4 Lost and Found ’? ” 

44 I’ll call ’em up for you,” proposed George. 

44 It wouldn’t be there yet,” said Donald, 44 even 


198 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


if I had lost the letter in the Subway train. It 
isn’t likely it would ever get there. It wouldn’t 
be worth turning in, would it? ” 

“ How should I know? ” demanded Felix. 
“ You ain’t even told me what ’twas about. 
Was it somethin’ important? ” 

Donald gave his associate a curious look. He 
was wondering whether the letter might really 
have been intended for Felix, and whether Felix 
suspected that a mistake had been made. Some- 
thing in the coarse, disagreeable countenance of 
the boy seemed to hint at this possibility. Under 
the gaze of the other, Felix flushed and hastened 
to say, with his old sarcastic manner: 

“ Oh, you needn’t tell what ’twas about, if 
you don’t want to! What do I care? What 
does George care? Eh, Georgie? ” 

“ Who asked what ’twas? ” said George. “ I 
didn’t.” 

“ Neither did I,” said Felix; “ at least, I ain’t 
askin’ now. And I guess I’m about through lookin’ 
for it, too. When a fellow don’t ’predate it, 
what’s the use? ” 

Then he looked at George, but the latter had 
turned away. 

“ Oh, I’m much obliged,” Donald hastened to 


A MYSTERIOUS LETTER 


199 


say. “ I’m much obliged to both of you, but 
I’m sure I didn’t lose the letter here. I — I 
can’t understand it.” 

It was one of those baffling little mysteries 
that vex and torture. Again and again that 
afternoon Donald tried to remember where he 
had last read the letter. He recalled having it 
when the Subway train stopped at the Fourteenth 
Street station. Somewhere between that point 
and the Brooklyn Bridge station, where he had 
left the train, he must have put it back in his 
coat pocket. Could he, through some careless 
movement, have done this in such a way that 
it had slipped out and fallen to the seat? It 
scarcely seemed possible, but he could not say 
positively. 

And then suspicion once more fell upon Felix 
and George. If either of them had expected such 
a letter, perhaps — ! Ah ! Donald was almost 
sure he had the solution. One or the other had 
abstracted the letter from his pocket while his 
coat hung on the peg. 

But the situation was not relieved. How could 
he demand the return of such a letter? How 
could he explain the fact that it was addressed to 
him? If any underhanded dealings were in prog- 


200 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


ress, the letter would condemn him should it 
get into the hands of persons not disposed to take 
his version. If Felix had the letter, then Felix 
had a dangerous weapon. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE TELEGRAPH ROOM 

T M 1HERE was little doing that night in the 
city room, for this was a time when the 
telegraph room had the field. The first Presi- 
dential convention was on, in Chicago, and a 
large part of the star staff was in attendance. 
Ordway had been gone a week, along with Hig- 
gins, Allport, Mowbray, Franklin, Campbell and 
Rumsey. Half a dozen others had been sent as 
assistants, and so the local force was sadly de- 
pleted. But local news just then was held down 
so hard that even the men who remained were 
not overworked. A stickful of print sufficed 
where a column would have been required ordi- 
narily, and many a customary assignment was 
ignored entirely. 

Somewhat oddly, however, Chapin’s function, 
instead of contracting, broadened. Technically, he 
was merely the chief of the city room; in reality, 
he commanded every department on the editorial 
floor, and was, in effect, the chief lieutenant of 


202 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


the managing editor. Even the editorial writers 
listened deferentially to his suggestions. If they 
failed to do so, it was quite likely that some 
carefully written piece of opinion would be killed 
from the editorial columns next morning. 

So, when the political news from Chicago began 
to take the paper by storm, Chapin, quietly and 
without ostentatious authority, assumed charge 
of it. The telegraph editor, without remon- 
strance, took orders from Chapin. So, too, did 
the make-up man, who, theoretically, held the 
high-sounding title of “ night editor.” Up-stairs 
and down, Chapin ruled, so it was not strange 
that Donald and Felix should be ordered into the 
telegraph room for the night. 

A noisy room it was. There was row after 
row of little desks, each with its chattering in- 
strument, its typewriter, its coatless operator 
with his green eye-shade, and its gleaming electric 
bulb fixed at the end of a metal arm. There was 
the long table surrounded by the copy-readers, 
who took the pages from the operators, edited 
them, and wrote the heads. There was the flat- 
topped desk of the telegraph editor himself, 
littered with copy and proofs, and the desk of 
his assistants, quite as badly heaped up. Here 


THE TELEGRAPH ROOM 


203 


was a place for work — incessant, grinding, ever- 
crowding work that touched the whole world, 
from London to China and from the Arctic to the 
Antarctic. It would have given a stranger a 
curious sensation to sit there in the chair of the 
telegraph editor and put his finger at will upon 
any spot on the earth, and make that spot talk 
to him. But just now Chicago loomed bigger 
than all the rest of the globe. 

As Donald entered the room he heard a familiar 
name spoken. 

“ Ordway wants to know how much to send on 
the Governor interview,” one of the operators 
called out to the telegraph editor. 

“ Not over nine hundred words,” was the an- 
swer; “ tell him to hold down as hard as he can 
on everything. Here, boy, take these proofs to 
Chapin.” 

This last was addressed to Donald. The tele- 
graph editor had spoken to him and to Ordway 
almost in a breath, though the two were a thou- 
sand miles apart. 

He performed his errand, and returned to the 
telegraph room. He was thinking regretfully of 
Ordway. If his friend and instructor were in 
New York, he reflected, the letter incident could 


204 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


be laid before him for advice. Ordway would 
know what to do; he always did know. But 
Ordway would not be back for a month. The 
second Presidential convention was to follow the 
first, at St. Louis, and after that, Ordway was 
going to Mexico on special work. Donald sighed 
and sat down on a bench, but jumped up again 
instantly at a signal from the head of the cable 
desk. 

“ Go up-stairs,” he said, 44 and tell them to take 
the proofs out of the tubes, and to keep them 
clear. They’re not so busy up there that they 
can’t take care of things.” 

Donald carried the message to the boy in charge 
of the pneumatic service in the composing-room. 
A vast room it was, stretching away into the dis- 
tance, as far as he could see. On both sides of 
the aisles were long rows of linotype machines, 
and at each machine sat an operator playing upon 
his keyboard and transforming into type the copy 
that came up from down-stairs. The click of the 
keys and the clatter of the machines all but 
drowned his voice as he repeated the words he 
had come to say. The recipient of the message 
merely shrugged his shoulders, and Donald 
turned away. 


THE TELEGRAPH ROOM 


205 


As he passed down one of the aisles, on his way 
back, he could see the make-up tables to the right, 
their marble tops glistening under the concen- 
trated rays of many strong lights overhead. The 
make-up editor was bending over a form, directing 
the movements of those under him. He was an 
autocrat, and with a wave of his arm or a move 
of his index-finger, he made or unmade whole 
pages. With his coat and vest off, his sleeves 
rolled up to the elbows, and his white shirt catch- 
ing the full effulgence of the lights, he made a 
conspicuous figure - — more conspicuous, far, than 
the unassuming form of Chapin, who chanced to 
be in the composing-room at the moment, and who 
was really the power that could dictate the place 
of every article and head in the paper. 

Chapin looked up and saw Donald go past, but 
gave him no further attention. The boy walked 
on. The scene was all very familiar to him, and 
now he scarcely saw it, so busy were his thoughts. 
But, a moment after he had passed Chapin, he 
stopped suddenly. Something caught his notice 
and chained his attention. It was Felix. 

The mere fact that Felix was in the compo- 
sing-room was quite legitimate. So, too, was the 
fact that Felix was carrying a bundle of proofs. 


206 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


Both these circumstances were quite in line with 
his duty, and, of themselves, need not have ex- 
cited a thought on the other boy’s part. But, at 
the very instant Donald’s eyes fell upon him, he 
was thrusting a folded galley proof into his pocket. 
By no ordinary construction of the rules of news- 
paper-making could Donald account for this pro- 
cedure. It was accompanied, too, by a certain 
furtiveness of demeanor that was subtle, but 
marked. 

Felix did not see Donald, and the latter 
stood still until the other had passed on. 
Then he went back to the telegraph room, and, 
during the remainder of the night, had little time 
for reflection. The convention in Chicago was 
in evening session, and was nominating a candi- 
date for the Presidency. At midnight came the 
news that a “ dark horse ” had won, and then for 
three hours the telegraph instruments and the 
typewriters worked fast. The full energy of the 
newspaper was concentrated on the telegraph 
room. The city room looked lonely and forlorn. 
Henderson, held there on reserve duty, dozed in 
his chair, with his pipe drooping from his mouth 
and his feet on his desk. Henderson wore socks 
in assorted colors, and now he displayed them* in- 


THE TELEGRAPH ROOM 


207 


voluntarily and they afforded the chief spot of 
life in the room. 

Chapin stayed until the last edition was down. 
So did the managing editor. Even the editor- 
in-chief was there until the night was well gone. 
Nobody stopped for the usual midnight luncheon, 
but when at last the long strain was ended and the 
presses down-stairs were once more shaking the 
building an4 tossing out their legions of papers, 
Chapin took the whole force down for a special 
supper. Felix and Donald sat opposite each other, 
but Felix looked chiefly on his plate. 

It was broad day when Donald went down the 
Subway stairs to go home. He was white and 
worn with the night’s labor, but that of itself 
did not weigh him down like the other load he 
could not shake off. Some vague but direful 
presentiment oppressed him. Something was 
brewing that meant mischief. Just what it was, 
he could not tell. Somewhere, he felt, there 
was treachery and treason afoot. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE STOLEN NEWS 

fTlHE following afternoon Donald received a 
summons to go to the office of the managing 
editor. When he entered he found Chapin there, 
in a chair beside Lawson’s desk. There was a 
pucker between the eyebrows of the city editor, 
and he kept smoothing down his hair in a half- 
absent manner that usually was the chief symptom 
of his nervousness. Lawson was a heavy-browed 
man whose face, to Donald, always was cold and 
stern, and now its iciness seemed to presage 
something disastrous. 

“ Sit down,” said Chapin, and this was a token 
at the very beginning that some unusual business 
was in hand. Donald had never been asked to 
sit down before in Chapin’s presence, or in that 
of the managing editor. His heart seemed to leap 
to his throat and he grew red and then pale as he 
took a swivel-chair on the opposite side of the 
desk. On the edge of the seat, and with his elbows 


THE STOLEN NEWS 


209 


on the chair’s arms, he looked Chapin squarely 
in the eyes and waited for whatever might come. 

44 Donald,” began the city editor, quietly but 
gravely, 44 1 assume that you know why you are 
here.” 

44 No, sir,” said the boy, 44 1 do not.” 

Chapin’s brow contracted still more. He turned 
to the desk and picked up a copy of that 
morning’s Inquirer. Tapping its first page, he 
asked : 

44 Do you know how the Inquirer got this par- 
ticular piece of news from Chicago? It has two- 
thirds of a column here that Ordway dug up 
for us last night — exclusive news that no other 
paper could have had. We printed it this morning; 
so did the Inquirer. True, the Inquirer jumbled 
it up a bit and twisted some of the minor facts 
in an attempt to disguise it, but the plain fact 
remains that the story came from this office. It 
could have come from nowhere else. Now, do 
you know how the Inquirer got it? ” 

44 No, sir,” said Donald, instantly and emphat- 
ically. Both Chapin and the managing editor 
looked at him sharply. 

44 Think again,” said the latter, and his voice 
was harsh and repellent. 


210 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


“ I don’t know how the Inquirer got it,” the 
boy insisted. 

Chapin put down the paper, and for a minute 
was silent, merely drumming noiselessly on the 
edge of the desk with his fingers. When he 
spoke there was more of regret in his voice than 
anger. 

“ Donald,” he said, “ I am sorry to question 
your truthfulness, for you have done some good 
work for us. It is very unpleasant to call any one 
to account who has served us well in most things. 
But this affair is one that we cannot overlook. 
We might forgive mistakes, incompetence, or 
even instances of deliberate neglect, but we can’t 
forgive a traitor. Please don’t deny this thing 
again. We know that you are the one who sold 
this piece of news to the Inquirer.” 

Donald was on his feet, his face blanched and 
the room almost reeling before him. He held the 
rim of the table for support. 

“ It’s a lie! ” he said, in a voice that was tense, 
almost horrified. “ It’s a lie, Mr. Chapin; I 
didn’t do it! ” 

“ Sit down.” It was the managing editor who 
gave the command. “ I don’t want such talk 
used here. Chapin, show him the letter.” 


THE STOLEN NEWS 


211 


Slowly, as if in reluctance, the city editor reached 
into his pocket and produced the lost letter. He 
held it out to the boy, who did not offer to take 
it, or even to look at it. Instead, he sat down as 
if crushed. 

44 How do you account for that ? 99 Chapin 
asked. 

Donald’s face was painful to see. The muscles 
were working spasmodically, and the ghastly 
color had spread even to his lips. 

44 1 can’t account for it,” he said. 44 1 meant 
to show it to you yesterday, but I lost it. Where 
— where did you get it? Did Felix — ” 

44 Never mind Felix,” Chapin interrupted. 
44 Let us leave him out. I have the letter; isn’t 
that sufficient? The letter was received by you. 
This, I understand, you do not deny.” 

44 But I don’t know where it came from,” 
Donald cried, in great distress. 44 1 have no idea 
who wrote it, or why it was sent to me. I didn’t 
talk to anybody at the Inquirer office about a 
thing of this sort — never. I haven’t the slight- 
est idea what was meant by 4 the same place,’ 
or about my 4 terms ’ being satisfactory.” 

Again Chapin looked at him in that solemn, re- 
gretful way. 


212 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


“ What were you doing yesterday afternoon 
at the Inquirer office? ” he asked. 

“ Yesterday afternoon? Why, I — I — went 
there to see — to see — ” 

Donald stammered and hesitated and stopped. 
His voice seemed to fail him utterly, and only his 
lips moved. The weight of the evidence against 
him was appalling. 

“ And you had full access to the telegraph 
proofs last night,” Chapin went on, with calm 
remorselessness. “ There are various ways in 
which an employe of a newspaper can betray 
his trust. One way — a way altogether too com- 
mon with dishonest men and boys — is to sell 
the proofs. Usually the proofs of particularly 
important news are looked after more carefully, 
but in the rush of convention night, some of the 
customary precautions were neglected. But we 
have known for some time that there was a leak. 
We have merely awaited an opportunity to put 
our finger on the traitor. Did you ever hear of 
Benedict Arnold? ” 

“ Yes.” The boy’s voice was faint. “ He was a 
traitor, but I am not. Don’t call me one. I didn’t 
do it. The letter is a lie; it’s all a lie. I don’t 
know who did it, but ask Felix how — ” 


THE STOLEN NEWS 


213 


He stopped, as the managing editor raised a 
hand. 

“ Chapin,” the latter said, “ don’t argue the 
thing. You have rated this boy too high. You 
have been deceived in him. That he will deny his 
treason is to be expected. Let us end the affair.” 

“ Very well,” said Chapin. “ Donald, you know 
that we cannot retain you in the employ of the 
Record. Our men and boys we must trust. Get 
your pay at the cashier’s window and go. You 
need not remain another hour.” 

The room seemed to swim before the boy’s 
eyes. This summary discharge, without oppor- 
tunity to defend himself, seemed cruel and un- 
necessary. In his heart, he knew that Felix 
Grompe was the real traitor. The conspiracy was 
revealed to him now. The whole chain of events, 
from the day George Waters commenced practic- 
ing on the typewriter down to the moment Felix 
thrust the proof into his pocket the night before, 
was evidence, link by link, of what had trans- 
pired. Felix was the principal in the thing, 
George the accomplice. Yet he had absolutely 
no evidence on his side to prove it. The letter 
itself condemned him and made all his protests 
seem absurd. 


214 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


In these straits, the boy’s thoughts turned in- 
stinctively to the one friend whom he felt would 
aid him, the friend who at the moment was a 
thousand miles away. 

“ If Mr. Ordway — ” he began, but the mana- 
ging editor was impatient of further discussion. 
He was a man of quick, autocratic decisions, and 
his will was law. He had no doubt of the boy’s 
guilt. 

“ Go! ” he said, and pointed to the door. 

Felix had followed Donald down the hall, at 
a safe distance, and when the door of the mana- 
ging editor’s office closed upon his enemy he drew 
near softly. Felix had the tread of a fox when he 
chose, and the ears of a lynx. As he stooped and 
peered through the keyhole, his lank, contorted 
figure somewhat resembled a serpent’s. There 
was something almost ghoulish, too, in his face 
as he squinted through the tiny hole and saw the 
hated form of his rival seated there in humilia- 
tion and utter disgrace. At last, Felix had his 
revenge. After many months, his schemings had 
succeeded; once more he would be supreme in 
Chapin’s favor. It was agreeable, too, to con- 
template the fact that George had written the 


THE STOLEN NEWS 


215 


letter that had accomplished it all. In all his 
machinations, Felix had used George as a tool. 
His own skin, he assured himself, was quite safe. 
If detection ever came, it would fall on George. 

Felix remained there, crouching before the door, 
until he dared remain not an instant longer. 
When the managing editor said “ Go! ” and 
pointed to the door, Felix straightened, gave a 
quick look up and down the corridor, and then 
ran swiftly and lightly, on his toes, back to the 
city room. 

George sat on the bench with his face whiter 
than the stacks of copy-paper on the table near 
by. His toes beat a nervous tattoo on the bare 
board floor, and his eyes were gazing vacantly 
into space. 

“ What’s the matter with you? ” demanded 
Felix, sitting down beside him. “ You ain’t got 
no more nerve than a girl. What’re you scared 
about now? ” 

“ I ain’t scared,” asserted George. “ Is — is 
he fired? ” 

“ Yes,” said Felix, and, in spite of his attempted 
braggadocio, his own voice trembled a little 
and his face was pale; “ he’s fired all right. It 
was the prettiest thing you ever seen. Georgie, 


216 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


you done the thing in great shape. You’re the 
best yet! ” 

“ I didn’t do it,” said George. “ You’re the 
one yourself that done it. I ain’t to blame, and 
I wish I’d never wrote that letter. I ain’t goin’ 
to do no more of your crooked work for you, Felix; 
cross my heart, I ain’t.” 

George’s conscience was almost strangling him. 
He choked, and the tears wet his cheeks. Felix 
regarded him for a moment in mighty disdain. 

“Stop your blubberin’!” he commanded. 
“ You little fool, ain’t you ashamed to cry like 
a bald-headed kid a foot long? ” 


CHAPTER XX 


IN DESPAIR 

TAONALD went out of the Record Building 
that July afternoon in the blackest mood 
that had ever fallen upon him. The city was at 
its full tide of activity, but he neither saw nor 
heard anything of it. His brain was in a whirl. 
All his emotions seemed to be let loose together. 
Despair, anger, humiliation, revengefulness, and 
a dozen other distressing mental states were com- 
mingled. The future seemed to hold nothing 
but disgrace and failure. With such a record 
behind him, how could he ever hope to succeed 
anywhere? 

He was appalled by the magnitude of the mis- 
fortune that had fallen upon him. Not only was 
he disgraced and out of work, but all the plans 
Ordway had formed for him had been shattered. 
The hope he had cherished for school, and per- 
haps college, had been destroyed with one blow. 
His thoughts were mere chaos for a time, and he 


218 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


wandered about the streets not knowing where 
he went or what he did. 

But gradually, as he wandered subconsciously 
through Battery Park, his mental processes began 
to take more definite shape. Such an injustice, 
he reasoned, could not long prevail. Surely there 
must be some way to vindicate himself. Then 
he shuddered as he recalled a story Ordway had 
worked upon during the preceding winter — a 
story that had shocked even New York, accus- 
tomed to pitiless things. It had been a story of 
a man confined for twenty years in Sing Sing 
prison, yet innocent. Ordway had proved him 
innocent. For many days and nights, this inde- 
fatigable worker had delved into the ancient 
evidence. He had taken long trips about the 
country and gathered from distant points the 
links in the chain that had at last lifted the con- 
vict out of prison. The Record had given many 
columns to the strange narrative, and on its 
editorial page had dwelt on the danger of cir- 
cumstantial evidence. Donald recalled this with 
bitter resentment. 

Seated on a bench that faced the harbor, the 
boy looked with vacant eyes upon the busy 
shipping scenes as he resolved in his mind the 


IN DESPAIR 


219 


whole situation. His courage was returning; he 
would not tamely submit to this stigma. In some 
way, he would prove his innocence and fix the 
guilt on the person who had done the thing. He 
had no doubt that Felix Grompe was that person. 
Some day Felix should feel the lash he so richly 
deserved. 

His thoughts were interrupted very unexpect- 
edly by a familiar voice. 

“ Well, kid, what’s the matter? Out of a job? 
You look as if you’d lost your grandmother. ” 

Donald turned his head and beheld Duff sit- 
ting alongside him. How long he had been there, 
the boy had no idea. For an hour or two, all 
faces had been alike to him. But now Duff’s 
face was very real and very unpleasant to see. It 
was unshaven and begrimed, and, Donald thought, 
swollen. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair — 
his hat lay on the grass back of him — matted 
and tangled. Duff, indeed, was a pitiable object. 
His clothing was soiled and disheveled, his shoes 
rusty and cracked. There was an air of complete 
dejection about him. 

“ What’s the matter, kid? ” he repeated. 
“ Out of a job? ” 

Donald hesitated. Either he must answer, or 


220 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


get up and walk away in silence. Something 
about the man stirred his compassion and made 
him choose the former course. 

“ Yes,” he said simply. 

Duff reached out a dirty hand and laid it on 
the boy’s arm. 

“ So’m I,” he said, and his voice seemed kindly. 
44 I’m out of a job, too. It’s chronic with me, you 
know. I’ve been out of a job more times than I 
can count. You’re new at it. How’d it happen? ” 

Donald was silent. He did not feel called upon 
to explain to Duff, of all persons. The man re- 
garded him curiously for a minute. 

“ All right, ” he said; “ you don’t have to tell, 
if you don’t want to. Perhaps ” — his tone was 
significant — “I may have had a reason for 
asking.” 

Still Donald was silent. Duff’s reasons did not 
excite his curiosity. 

“ Suppose,” the man went on, “ that you give 
me three guesses. I used to be a good hand at 
puzzles. I am also quite expert at mind-reading. 
Furthermore, during my short but distinguished 
career on the Record, I observed — Well, I am 
not bad at observing. Will you give me three 
guesses? ” 


IN DESPAIR 


221 


Donald looked at him inquiringly. The strange 
accent in his voice seemed to carry some signifi- 
cant meaning. Then a revulsion came over him 
and he merely said: 44 Guess, if you want to.” 

Duff crossed his legs, folded his arms, and looked 
away at a ferry-boat churning the water in the 
direction of Staten Island. 

44 My first guess,” he said, 44 is Felix; my second 
guess is Felix; my third guess is Felix.” 

Donald was startled. 4 4 What do you know 
about Felix? ” he demanded. 

Duff smiled, revealing yellow teeth. 44 1 see 
I’ve hit it,” he said craftily. 44 It was merely a 
guess, however, merely a guess.” 

44 Tell me,” Donald insisted, 44 what you know.” 
His eyes were bright again and his breath came 
faster. 44 It wasn’t a guess, Mr. Duff,” he went 
on; 44 it couldn’t have been a guess. What do 
you know about Felix? ” 

Duff, however, changed the conversation. 
Turning sidewise in his seat and putting a hand 
on the boy’s shoulder in disagreeable familiarity, 
he asked, suavely: 

44 How much do I owe you, kid? Six dollars, 
isn’t it? ” 

44 Tell me what you know about Felix,” said 


222 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


Donald quickly, “ and you’ll not owe me any- 
thing.” 

Duff smiled again. “ That’s good,” he said. 
“ If I could cancel all my debts so easily, I’d 
soon be a capitalist. But the fact of the matter 
is that I’m short of ready cash. I’ve got an uncle 
out west who’s going to leave me a few hundred 
thousands some day, on condition that I stay 
away from him while he’s alive. After he’s dead, 
he can stand me. It’s rather inconvenient, this 
condition is, for it bars me from writing for 
cash. An unreasonable old codger, eh? If I 
even give him a chance to look upon me, I’m 
disinherited. And here I am in New York, broke. 
I’ve lost my seventy-sixth job, and I haven’t 
had any dinner or breakfast. Now, I owe you 
six dollars. That’s understood. Give me six 
dollars more and I’ll make out my note to you 
for an even hundred, payable a week after my 
good old uncle departs hence. See? For twelve 
dollars you get a hundred. Fair enough, isn’t it? ” 

The boy hesitated. He had more than six 
dollars in his pocket, but every dollar was needed, 
since he was out of work. Never would he ask 
his aunt for a cent. How and where he was to se- 
cure new employment was problematical. But he 


IN DESPAIR 


223 


would gladly give up the six dollars for in- 
formation that might aid him in establishing his 
innocence. 

“ You get the hundred,” Duff assured him, 
“ just as soon as the funeral is nicely over and 
things are straightened out a bit. I’ve got a chap 
out there keeping me posted.” Duff grinned. 

“ I don’t want the hundred,” said Donald, 
reaching into his pocket. “ You needn’t bother 
to write a note. You can have the six dollars if 
you’ll tell me all you know about Felix.” 

“ A bargain’s a bargain,” said Duff. “ I’ll 
make out the note. Ah! ” He reached out and 
got his eager clutch on the bills. Having thrust 
them hastily into his pocket, in a wad, he went 
on: “I haven’t a blank note convenient, but I’ll 
get one at the bank to-morrow. Then I’ll fill it 
out and mail it to you.” 

“ But Felix? ” reminded Donald. “ What 
about Felix? ” 

Duff straightened himself in his seat. “ Felix,” 
he said, after a little thought, “ is a bad boy, a 
very bad boy. I should advise any self-respecting 
youth not to seek his company. I haven’t a 
doubt that he would do dishonest things. How’d 
he get you fired, kid? ” 


224 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


“ But what about him? ” demanded Donald. 
“ How do you know he got me fired? ” 

“ I guessed it,” said Duff. 

Donald felt himself getting angry. “ No, you 
didn’t guess it! ” he said. “ Of course you didn’t! 
There’s something you know, and you promised 
to tell me.” 

“ Did I? ” returned Duff. “ I don’t recall it. 
You take a mere guess too seriously. Felix, I 
tell you, is a bad boy. Keep away from him. 
I was very sorry to see you in such company. 
The copy-bench, my boy, was no place for you. 
Beware of Felix.” 

“ Aren’t you going to tell me what you know? ” 
Donald was white with passion, but he spoke 
quietly. He was beginning to see that he had once 
more been made a victim by Duff. 

“ Haven’t I told you? ” Duff was complacent. 
“ Felix, I say, is a very bad boy. Keep away 
from him.” 

The boy’s eyes blazed. “ If Ordway were here,” 
he said, “ he’d throw you into the bay. You’re 
a sneak and a thief. You’re as bad as Felix. 
You’ve got my money under false pretenses, and 
I want it back.” 

Duff merely smiled. “You get a note for a 


IN DESPAIR 


225 


hundred, don’t you? ” he returned. “ Isn’t that 
sufficient? Where’s the fraud in that? ” 

Donald got up. “ When Ordway comes back,” 
he said, “ he’ll show you where the fraud is. 
Haven’t you any conscience at all? ” 

Duff’s semi-humorous air suddenly left him. 
He straightened and looked the boy full in the 
face. 

“ When a fellow’s down and out,” he said, 
“ what’s the use of a conscience? Your acquaint- 
ance with me will be worth far more than twelve 
dollars to you. I’m a sample that’ll be worth 
remembering. I started out wrong, and I’ve gone 
wrong ever since. I had as good a chance as any 
fellow ever had, but I didn’t seize it. As to 
Felix — ” Duff hesitated and stopped. 

“ What about him? ” reiterated Donald breath- 
lessly. 

“ He’s a bad boy,” said Duff, with an exas- 
perating relapse into his facetious mood. “ He’s 
a very bad boy; look out for him. Beware of 
Felix; beware of crookedness; beware of liquor.” 

That was all Donald could get from the fellow. 
At dusk he went home. A thunder-storm was 
gathering over the New Jersey hills, but his 
despair was quite as black as the clouds. 


CHAPTER XXI 


FELIX AND DUFF AGAIN 

/~\NE evening, a month later, there was a singu- 
lar group of persons seated in the office of 
the Record’s managing editor. Lawson himself 
was at his desk, while Chapin sat at one side of 
him and Ordway at the other. Over by the win- 
dow, tilted back in his chair, with his feet on the 
table, was Duff. His appearance had improved 
somewhat since the day he had sat on a bench at 
Battery Park, but he had by no means recovered 
his former sleek look. He was Duff, however — 
the selfsame, redoubtable Duff, with all his old- 
time assurance. His hat was tilted back on his 
head, a cigarette hung from his lips, and a story 
magazine was in his hands — but it was upside 
down. This was about the only evidence that 
Duff was at all disturbed mentally. 

But there were two other persons in the room 
who did show marked signs of distress. One was 
Felix Grompe; the other was George Waters. Felix 


FELIX AND DUFF AGAIN 


227 


sat in a straight-backed chair, and looked stiffly 
in front of him at the opposite wall, although there 
was nothing upon it to see except the original 
drawing of a political cartoon. Felix had never 
cared for cartoons, preferring the colored supple- 
ment of the Sunday edition. But now he kept his 
eyes steadily upon it, because he preferred not 
to look at other things just then. His face was 
very pale, and somewhat contorted, yet he was 
quiet and apparently cool. 

Not so with George. Always more emotional 
than Felix, he was in a sad state just now. He was 
all in a huddle, in a chair in the corner, blubbering 
and rubbing his eyes. The tears and dirt had 
discolored his face, his long hair was unkempt, and 
his general appearance very wobegone. Ord- 
way regarded him contemplatively, and the man- 
aging editor scanned the scene with some impa- 
tience. 

“ Felix,” Chapin began, “ please tell Mr. Law- 
son what you have already told us.” 

Felix still looked straight ahead. “ I ain’t got 
no more to say,” he answered sullenly. 

“ Oh, yes, you have,” suggested Chapin mildly. 

“ I ain’t,” insisted Felix. 

“ Well,” the city editor said, after a moment of 


228 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


silence, “ perhaps George will be more obliging. 
George, what have you to say? ” 

George continued to look at the floor and rub 
his eyes. “ It was Felix who done it, all right,” 
he said. “ Him and me fixed it up.” 

“ Fixed what up? ” hinted Chapin. 

“ The game,” explained George weakly. “ The 
game to ‘ do ’ Kirk. We got some letter-paper 
from Jimmy What’s-his-name, one o’ the kids 
at the Inquirer office, and Felix made me write 
the letter.” 

“ What letter? ” Chapin was relentless. 

“ The letter to Kirk.” 

“ Go on, George.” 

“ Felix didn’t mean to let Kirk get it, at all. 
He was goin’ to take it himself from the postman, 
and open it, and then pretend he’d found it on 
the floor. But Kirk got hold of it first, and Felix 
had to steal it out o’ his coat.” 

“ Then the letter was a lie, was it? ” asked 
Chapin. 

“ Yes.” George’s voice was very low. 

“ And who sold the proofs to the Inquirer? ” 

“ Felix,” said George; “ me and Felix.” 

There was deep silence in the room for a full 
minute. Then Chapin went on: 


FELIX AND DUFF AGAIN 


229 


“ George, tell us how you happened to make 
this confession.” 

“ Mr. Ordway done it,” said George. “ He 
found it out — I dunno how; him and Duff done 
it.” 

“ Now, Felix,” said Chapin, turning again to 
the other boy, “ have you any correction to make 
in what George has said? ” 

“ No,” said Felix shortly. 

Chapin leaned back in his chair with a half 
sigh. Then he looked at Duff, who was still pre- 
tending to read his magazine, with his feet on the 
table. 

“ Mr. Duff,” said the city editor politely, 
“ will you repeat to us what you know about 
Felix? ” 

Duff tossed his magazine to the table, but did 
not remove his feet. “ Certainly,” he said, “ if 
Mr. Ordway desires it.” 

Ordway signified his assent, and Duff took down 
his extremities and put them on the floor. He 
threw away his cigarette and got out a fresh one. 
Before beginning, he lighted it, inhaled the smoke, 
and blew it from his nostrils. 

“ Yesterday,” he began, “ my friend Mr. Ord- 
way came to me and asked me to tell him all I 


230 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


knew about Felix Grompe, in connection with 
certain events which I need not specify in detail, 
since they are now quite well known. Since Mr. 
Ordway was a very good friend of mine, and, fur- 
thermore, since I desired to serve the ends of 
justice, I consented.” 

Here Ordway looked at Chapin significantly. 
44 Go on,” he said, to Duff, as the latter seemed 
to hesitate. 

44 Very well.” He blew out a wreath of gray 
smoke. 44 1 desired to serve the ends of justice,” 
he repeated. Then more smoke. 44 Incidentally,” 
he added, 44 1 wish to state that I have perma- 
nently quit the newspaper game and am about to 
engage in commercial lines. In other words, I 
am going to South America — Shall I omit de- 
tails, Mr. Ordway? ” 

44 Yes,” said Ordway; 44 tell us in a few words 
what happened on a certain night last winter.” 

Another column of smoke ascended. 

44 On that certain night,” Duff resumed, 44 1 
was short of ready cash. Of course, I do not offer 
that fact as an excuse, gentlemen, but I deem it 
necessary, in mere justice to myself, to repeat 
that I was short of ready ca — ” 

44 Tut, tut!” broke in the managing editor. 


FELIX AND DUFF AGAIN 


231 


“ Duff, cut out that nonsense and tell us what 
happened.” 

Duff looked hurt. “ Very well,” he said. “ I 
was short of ready cash, and that being the case, 
I was hard pressed financially. There were cer- 
tain liabilities that were crowding me seriously. 
You gentlemen, I believe, scarcely know what 
it means — ” 

“ Come! ” said Chapin, sharply. “ Did you 
or did you not sell to the Inquirer an exclusive 
news-story from the Record office? ” 

Duff inhaled some smoke. “ I did,” he said. 
“ Being short — ” 

“ And who got you the proofs that you sold? ” 
The managing editor interrupted again. 

“ Felix Grompe. Being short of ready — ” 

“ That’s sufficient! ” said Chapin, rising. “ Just 
one more thing, Duff: did you ever overhear Felix 
Grompe and George Waters plotting to secure the 
discharge of Donald Kirk? Yes or no! ” 

“ Yes,” said Duff. “ Being short — ” 

The managing editor whirled suddenly in his 
chair, his eyes blazing. 

“Duff,” he cried, “go! Thank heaven, the 
newspaper calling has few men of your ilk. What- 
ever our faults may be, it is rare to find in our 


232 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


ranks a man who is not loyal, to the very death. 
Treason and cowardice are not often laid at our 
doors. We sometimes starve; we sometimes go 
down and out in obscurity, crowded aside by the 
relentless pace of the machine we are running; 
the world does not always know or care how 
valiantly we have fought and served. But you 
— bah ! Your very confession is cowardice, since 
you make it merely to save yourself from the 
criminal law. You are beyond redemption. Go! ” 

Duff threw away his cigarette, picked up his 
hat and pipe, and walked out without replying. 
Then the managing editor turned back to his 
desk, as if the affair were closed. Felix’s face had 
relaxed, and his eyes were now red and moist. 
George was sobbing. 

“ In your case,” said Chapin, facing the two 
boys, “ there is still time for reform. You are 
both young; you can live down this thing if you 
set about it. Felix, there is some excuse for you, 
since it was Duff who first tempted you to betray 
the Record. To-day you have seen the thing in 
all its hideous light. Now go. Mr. Ordway has 
volunteered to help you find work — both of you.” 

George went out first and Felix followed with 
bowed head — and Felix, too, was crying. 


FELIX AND DUFF AGAIN 


233 


44 Now, Ordway,” said Chapin, as the two left 
the managing editor’s office together, 44 you’d 
better see about that scholarship at once. It’s 
pretty well along toward September. When does 
the 4 prep ’ school open? ” 

44 Three weeks from to-day,” said Ordway, 
44 I’ll see to the matter — ” 

44 And meanwhile,” said Chapin, 44 get hold of 
the boy and bring him back to the office. You 
haven’t seen him, you say? ” 

44 No,” returned Ordway, 44 but I’ll find him. 
I understand he’s employed in some railroad office. 
I haven’t had time — ” 

A violent ringing of the telephone on Chapin’s 
desk greeted them as they entered his den. The 
city editor took up the receiver and held it to his 
ear for a minute, at the same time asking sharp, 
crisp sentences of the unseen informant who was 
talking to him. Then, turning quickly to Ord- 
way, he said: 

44 The reservoir at Parkstown has burst and the 
whole town has been swept away by the flood. 
You’ll have to take a party up there, Ordway, 
in a hurry. Get Huntley on the wire and have 
him make up a special train for us quick. 


CHAPTER XXII 


NEW WORK 

mHE same evening Donald sat in a little office 
that looked out over a maze of railroad 
tracks, very dark just then, but studded with 
lights that flashed red, green and white. Beyond, 
under the arc rays of lofty electric bulbs, the dim 
outline of a locomotive roundhouse was visible, 
with ascending columns of smoke above it and 
many mighty forms about it — steel forms that 
lived in the roundhouse when at home, but went 
abroad at unseemly hours and returned at dusk 
or at dawn to stand panting and hissing, awaiting 
a chance to get inside and rest. Beyond the round- 
house and so far above the Harlem River that 
they seemed like big stars, were the lights on 
High Bridge. 

It was a Saturday night, an hour after dark, 
but the office of the division superintendent rec- 
ognized no Saturday half-holiday nor any great 
difference between daylight and darkness. There 
were men who stayed there all day, and others 


NEW WORK 


235 


who stayed all night. The division superintend- 
ent himself was not unlike Chapin in some re- 
spects. He was just as likely to be in his office 
when the sun came up as at sunset. And the whole 
atmosphere of the place was like that in the Rec- 
ord office — tense, serious. It was even tenser 
and more serious than the city room, for here in 
the superintendent’s office were affairs of life and 
death. Grave responsibilities weighed upon the 
men there, and even Donald, in his brief term of 
service, had come to feel this atmosphere and to 
know its sobering influence. 

Not that Donald needed much sobering. Since 
his distressing exit from the newspaper field he 
had been subdued enough even for the heaviest 
of responsibilities. The brightness of his dark 
eyes was still there, and at times his face lighted 
with something of the old vivacity and happiness, 
but the light-heartedness was only momentary. 
For the most part he moved under a cloud, and 
did his work in silence. The brand of treason 
lay heavily upon him. He had entered this new 
field of endeavor, not from choice, but necessity. 
The weary search for work had brought him this; 
and work enough, indeed, he had found, though 
his heart was not in it. It was not his nature to 


236 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


slight duty, whatever that duty might be, but in 
spirit he was back again in the city room, taking 
lessons from Ordway and building air-castles of 
the “ prep ” school up the Hudson, and then — 
Yale. 

It was all an air-castle now — all, except this 
long, daily grind in the superintendent’s office. 
From eight in the morning until late at night, 
often, he sat there in the blistering heat, and the 
grime from the engines, and filled out numberless 
blanks, or wrote whole pages of numbers, or sorted 
huge stacks of reports. If there was any romance 
in railroading, he got mere glimpses of it from his 
window, as he stole a moment now and then to 
glance at the throbbing steel giants that rumbled 
past, or to see the roofs of the long trains of cars 
that glided swiftly in and out of New York. His 
part in railroading was even more humble than 
his part had been in newspaper-making, and vastly 
less absorbing. All the old expectancy was gone; 
all the delightful uncertainty lacking; all the 
excitement turned into this monotonous routine 
that crowded him every minute. 

But now it was Saturday evening and he was 
finishing up the loose ends of his week’s work and 
looking forward to Sunday’s freedom. The super- 


NEW WORK 


237 


intendent’s office did not close on Sunday, but 
he was not required to be there. Later on, the 
chief clerk told him, agreeably, he might have to 
come down for part of a day on the Sabbath; the 
railroads hadn’t much respect for the day of rest, 
and, if the trains ran on Sunday, there must be 
men to run them. In this respect, too, Donald 
reflected, the railways were like the newspapers. 
He told himself, however, that he would rather 
work ten Sundays in the city room than one in 
this railroad office. 

Thoughts such as these were in his head when 
he heard the chief clerk at the ’phone. The chief 
clerk was at the instrument half the time, it 
seemed to him, and what passed back and forth 
over the wire ordinarily was of small moment to 
the boy. As a rule it pertained to technicalities 
of railroading, or to repetitions of train numbers, 
or to equally dry matters of which he already had 
a surfeit. So now he gave no special attention 
until he heard the Record referred to. Then he 
dropped his work and sat up straight on his stool. 
It was not just his place to listen, but the one- 
sided conversation was public, and he could not 
have helped listening if he had tried. 

The chief clerk hung up the receiver and turned 


238 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


to Huntley, the superintendent, who came in at 
that moment. 

“ The Record,” he said, “ wants a special, right 
away, to go to Parkstown. The reservoir up there 
has burst and the town is flooded. They want 
to get up there by midnight.” 

The superintendent looked at the clock. He 
was a big, bronzed man, with a closely-cropped 
beard and a manner that bespoke authority. He 
was the master of all those iron monsters down 
in the yard, and he knew each of them as inti- 
mately as he knew the men in his office. He knew 
their abilities and their failings, their moods and 
their tempers. 

“ It’s eight fifty-eight now,” he said. “If a 
special were to get away in an hour it would have 
to be a fast one to get to Parkstown before one 
o’clock. It’s a hundred and ninety miles up there, 
isn’t it? ” 

“ A hundred and eighty-nine and two-tenths,” 
corrected the clerk, consulting his table. 

“ Call it a hundred and eighty-nine, then. At 
sixty miles an hour, a special would need a little 
more than three hours. We might beat that to 
Albany, but beyond Albany we’d have to slow 
down. The roadbed on the Parkstown branch 


NEW WORK 


239 


wouldn’t stand any such speed. Call the Record 
and tell them that we’ll get them there by two 
o’clock, but can’t promise anything better.” 

In a minute the clerk had the newspaper on 
the wire again. 

“ Is that Mr. Chapin? What? Up-stairs, you 
say? I don’t get you — who’s talking? Oh, Ord- 
way! All right, Mr. Ordway; the superintendent 
says he can get you to Parkstown by two o’clock, 
but not before. That won’t do? I’m sorry, but — 
What? I say I’m sorry, but — What’s that? I 
tell you it isn’t possible. Did you say that any- 
thing was possible? Well, perhaps in your busi- 
ness, but not in ours. Why, it’s after nine o’clock 
now! It would be an hour before we could get 
you started — Half an hour, you say? No, I 
don’t think we could do it. We’re not so fast as 
all that. Besides, you people couldn’t get up here 
in half an hour, could you? Oh, an automobile! 
Well, maybe you might. Yes, we have got some 
fast engines, of course, but it isn’t always easy to 
pick one up at a moment’s notice. What’s that? 
Got to have one, you say? Just hold the wire and 
I’ll let you talk to the superintendent himself.” 

“ Hello,” said Huntley, taking the receiver. 
“ How are you, Ordway? Didn’t know you were 


240 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


back from the west. Been back three days, you 
say? I’ve been reading your signed stuff from 
Mexico with a great deal of — Midnight? Oh, 
no, Ordway, no special on earth could get you 
to Parkstown by that time. It can’t be done. 
However, we’ll do the best we can to land you 
there by one o’clock or shortly after. How bad 
is the flood? Whole town wiped out? Then you 
may have trouble getting in, though our tracks 
lie pretty high up there. What? All right, Ord- 
way, we’ll try to have the train ready when you 
get here. Come to the viaduct over the tracks 
near the roundhouse. I’ll have the special pull 
in on the track nearest the fence.” 

He hung up the receiver and turned back to his 
clerk. 

“ We’ll have to take Number Four hundred 
and eight,” he said. “ She’s the only locomotive 
in the yards that’s in shape for such a fast run at 
a moment’s notice. Get the roundhouse on the 
wire quick. Tell Me Whalen to set her into track 
forty-seven. Then call up Dobson and tell him to 
give us a heavy coach and baggage-car; we want 
something that’ll stay on the track. Tell him — ” 

But the clerk was already at the telephone, 
carrying out the orders. McWhalen evidently 


NEW WORK 


241 


grumbled a little over the sudden shifting of en- 
gines, and the superintendent himself took the 
instrument. 

“ We’ve got to have Four hundred and eight,” 
he said; “ it can’t be helped. Is Harvey Burnes 
there? Let me talk to him. Hello, Harvey! 
You’ve got a fast run ahead of you to-night, but 
I reckon you’re equal to it. Yes, Parkstown for 
the Record. I want you to make it a record run, 
sure enough, Harvey. You’re to take the special 
clear through. It may warm up the old girl a 
bit, but she’ll stand it, won’t she? Yes, you’ll 
handle her all right, I know. Get those newspaper 
chaps through by one o’clock. If you do, Harvey, 
Ordway will give you a boost in the paper to- 
morrow, I’m sure. I’ll see to the orders; you’ll 
have a clear track. Good-by.” 

“ If there’s an engineer on the road that can do 
it, he can,” observed Huntley, as he hung the re- 
ceiver up. “ Little Mike Murphy is his fireman, 
and Mike is a wonder. He’ll steam her as fast as 
Harvey can run her. Mike can shovel more coal 
in an hour than any two firemen on the road east 
of Buffalo. There’s only one man west of there 
can come up to him. Now call up Jamieson and 
tell him to put Griffiths on the special. He’s a 


242 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


good steady conductor. Then let me talk to the 
dispatcher.” 

So the orders emanated in quick succession, 
spreading in all directions. Far up the line to 
Albany, and beyond, the telephones and the click- 
ing instruments echoed the commands. And 
meanwhile, as he still sat on his stool, Donald saw 
the flash of the great white headlight of Number 
408 as she came out of the roundhouse and was 
set around by the turn-table into track forty- 
seven. He heard the clang of her bell as she 
backed slowly down to the spot where she was to 
pick up the coach and baggage-car. The sound 
of the steam from her safety-valve told of the vast 
dormant power that was waiting to haul the 
Record’s train northward at the speed of a hurri- 
cane. 

All this stirred the boy’s newspaper instinct 
to its depth. Once more, in imagination, he was 
back in the city room. Chapin was giving his 
orders in the same quiet, undisturbed manner. 
No matter how great the exigency or how much 
the minutes crowded him, Chapin was Chapin — 
calm, easy, self-confident. Worth might fume 
and sweat as much as he pleased, and “ rattle ” 
the boys with his nervous energy, but Chapin 


NEW WORK 


243 


spoke softly and moved like a man with slippered 
feet. And when Chapin was there, the whole 
office moved likewise. 

Donald could see it all now, quite as well as if 
he had been there. He could see Ordway and 
Higgins and Allport, and the rest of them — how 
many? he wondered — filling their pockets with 
copy-paper and pencils. He could see them a 
a minute or two later as they filed out of the 
Record Building into Park Row — the same Park 
Row of which he had dreamed every night since 
he had last seen it. He could see them clambering 
into the automobile that was waiting, and he 
could see the car spin around into Broadway — 
Broadway, the “ great white way ” that had so 
often fascinated him with its wondrous night 
beauty. He could see the car skimming swiftly 
up the mighty artery of traffic, dodging vehicles 
and street-cars with many an alarming escape. 
He could even hear Ordway’s laugh, and Higgins’ 
gruff rejoinder. And then, in his brain, he saw 
the party mounting the steps of the special train. 
He saw — 

“ Better go home, if you’re through,” said the 
chief clerk, breaking in on his thoughts. “ What ’re 
you sitting there for? ” 


244 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


Donald slid down from his stool. He straight- 
ened up the papers on his desk, reached for his 
hat, and went out. For a minute he stood on the 
steps, peering over in the direction of the waiting 
special. He could see the lights in the car win- 
dows now, and the headlight of the engine made a 
brilliant streak down the track. 

Then, down the road that bordered the rail- 
road yards, another headlight flashed. The chug- 
ging of an automobile reached him, and, a moment 
later, voices. He heard Ordway’s voice — heard 
him laugh, just as he had done in the boy’s 
thoughts a few minutes before. And Higgins’ 
gruff rejoinder followed. 

Donald turned and reentered the office. With- 
out hesitation he walked to the superintendent’s 
desk. 

“ Mr. Huntley,” he said, “ I’d like to go with 
the special to Parkstown. I’m off duty to-mor- 
row; I could be back at work Monday morning 
as usual.” 

Huntley looked up quickly. For a moment 
there was a frown on his face that nearly killed 
the boy’s hopes. Then, as he saw the eager eyes 
of his young clerk, his expression changed. 

“ It’ll be a hard trip,” he answered. “ You’d 


NEW WORK 


245 


be better off in bed. Still — ” Huntley hesitated. 
Perhaps he was thinking of the long daily grind 
the boy had. Perhaps he was thinking of the 
long years of grinding toil he had put in himself, 
over just such a desk, before he acquired the right 
to command other grinding workers. “ Still,” he 
went on, “ if you want to go, I don’t know why 
you shouldn’t.” 

Donald’s heart seemed to leap. The superin- 
tendent rose and glanced out of the window toward 
track forty-seven. Then he sat down suddenly 
and reached for his pen. 

“ You’ll have to be quick,” he said. “ They’ll 
be pulling out pretty soon. Here, take this — 
We’ll send word to your folks.” 

Donald took the slip of paper and glanced at 
it as he passed out. It said, simply: 

“ Pass this boy on Record special. 

“ Huntley.” 

He ran down the flight of steps that led to the 
yards. It was a dark night, threatening, and 
very warm. There was a maze of switch tracks 
ahead of him, and long lines of freight cars in the 
way. A hazardous course it was, but he threaded 


246 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


the path without much caution. It would be a 
bitter disappointment now if the special should 
pull out before he reached it. He heard the sud- 
den clang of a locomotive bell, and his heart stood 
still. It was the bell of 408, he was sure. 

Unhappily, another string of freight cars lay 
between him and track forty-seven. Whether 
or not there was an engine on the end of it, he 
didn’t know. It made no difference; he would 
crawl under the cars, anyway. Crawl under he 
did — just in time to confront the headlight of the 
special’s locomotive as the train gathered impetus 
for its fast flight out of New York. There was a 
mighty hissing of steam from the cylinders and a 
tremendous, deafening roar from the safety-valve. 
The glare of the lofty headlight blinded him, and 
for a second he shrank away from it. Then, step- 
ping boldly on track forty-seven, squarely in the 
path of the on-coming thing, he waved his arms 
in imperative signals to stop. 

Harvey Burnes, at the throttle, either had to 
stop or run over the boy. He preferred to stop. 
The brakes clamped suddenly, and the engine 
stood still. Then up into the cab climbed Donald, 
without ado. Producing his pass, he presented 
it to Harvey Burnes, whom he had come to know 


NEW WORK 


247 


very well even in his short term at railroading. 
Burnes made his reports every day at the division 
superintendent’s office. 

“ What’s this? ” asked the engineer, holding 
the paper to the light that illumined the steam- 
gauge. “ 4 Pass this boy — ’ ” he repeated, his 
voice quite inaudible in the noise the engine made. 
But Donald did not wait for him to express an 
opinion. Putting his lips close to the grizzled old 
engineer’s ear, he shouted: 

“ You’ll let me ride on the engine, won’t you? 
I — I’ve never been on an engine before.” 

A moment previous, Donald had not even con- 
templated such a thing. He fully expected to ride 
in the coach with the Record party. But there 
had come over him suddenly an overwhelming 
sense of his own shame and disgrace. The thought 
of facing those Record men was unbearable. It 
was Ordway whom he wanted to see; the desire 
to see Ordway had prompted his sudden impulse 
to go on the special. The thing had been done 
on the moment, and already, even as he had flagged 
the engine, he was sorry for it. Rather than get 
into the coach and confront his old associates, he 
would give up the trip and go home. But the 
locomotive cab offered a refuge; it might be that 


248 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


he could see Ordway later. If he could only see 
Ordway and explain — 

Harvey Burnes took him roughly by the arm. 
But, instead of handing him down the engine 
steps and setting him on the ground, as he ex- 
pected, he found himself suddenly elevated to the 
fireman’s seat. He could not hear what Burnes 
said, but it made no difference. The engineer 
was back at his throttle, and a mighty shiver ran 
through the monster’s frame. Little Mike Murphy 
threw open the furnace door, and the crimson 
glow that came from it made him look like a gnome 
as he bent his back to the shovel. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE FLIGHT OF THE SPECIAL 

I^TUMBER 408 was a new engine, despite the 
fact that Huntley had called it 4 4 the old 
girl.” A ponderous piece of mechanism it was, 
with triple cylinders and driving-wheels higher 
than a man’s head. A horse could have walked 
through the boiler, and the fire-box was so big 
and cavernous that it was really marvelous how 
little Mike Murphy could shovel coal enough to 
keep it filled. Withal, Number 408 seemed as 
graceful as a bird and as easy-running as a sewing- 
machine. 

Donald looked ahead, from his forward window, 
upon the tangle of switches and the flashing lights 
that seemed to jump at them every moment. 
To Harvey Burnes, every one had a message, 
but to the boy they were quite as mysterious as if 
they had been stars that came down to dance for 
a moment and disappear. Once or twice, in the 
yards, a red glow shone suddenly in their eyes, 
and Number 408 lurched and stopped for a second 


250 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


or two, until the red flashed into green. And then 
they were out on the main line, with a clear, 
straight-away track. The special really got down 
to business. 

Burnes reached up to the whistle-valve, and 
the hoarse warning went far ahead of them through 
the on-rushing darkness. The engine swayed like 
a ship, and Donald, holding on in alarm, looked 
across at the engineer. Burnes had his eyes on 
the track, however, and sat straight and tense 
at the throttle. All his seeing faculties were con- 
centrated on the band of light ahead of them; 
all his hearing powers were listening to the roar 
of the locomotive. Burnes was something like 
a bandmaster; he could hear any discord, however 
slight, amid the general crash and rumble. Occa- 
sionally, he reached over methodically and touched 
this or that wheel. 

Murphy had the furnace door open more than 
half the time, and the glare reached far up the 
high bluffs that overhung the train on the right. 
On the left, it turned the surface of the Hudson 
to blood red. They were skimming along the very 
brim of the great river, and sometimes it seemed 
as if they would plunge straight into it. At other 
times they shot suddenly into a tunnel and then 


THE FLIGHT OF THE SPECIAL 251 


for a moment a thousand forges seemed to be 
hammering at the boy’s ears. 

Murphy had small use for his high seat, but at 
times, when the furnace door was closed for a 
minute, he would climb up in front of Donald 
and sit mopping the water from his face and 
chest, and cool himself in the rushing wind that 
swept through. The cab was dark then, except 
for the shaded light on the steam-gauge. The 
flying landscape, dimly visible in the luminous 
headlight, seemed very vague and mysterious and 
beautiful. 

In one of his intervals of rest, Murphy brought 
from a chest in the tender a jumper and overalls 
for the engine’s guest. 

“ You’ll spoil them store clothes of yourn,” he 
shouted. “ Better get into these, whether they 
fit you or not. You ain’t likely to meet much 
swell s’ciety to-night.” 

It had seemed to Donald that Murphy was not 
much larger than he was himself, but when he put 
on Murphy’s garments he looked rather ludicrous 
and had to turn up both the sleeves and trouser 
legs. Then he climbed back on the seat, and 
Murphy laughed at him and threw open the fur- 
nace door again. 


252 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


The next time Murphy got up on his seat the 
boy bent forward and asked how fast they were 
going. For answer, the fireman reached over and 
touched an illuminated dial, like the speedometer- 
face of an automobile. It indicated sixty-four 
miles an hour. After that, Donald watched the 
wavering finger and saw it move up and up until 
it was just short of the seventy mark. Then they 
struck a rough piece of track and the engine 
seemed to be running on cobble stones. In a 
panic, he looked over at Burnes, but the engineer 
sat as stern and cool as ever, and presently Don- 
ald saw the finger on the speed-gauge dropping 
back rapidly — fifty, forty, thirty-five, it indi- 
cated; there it hung for a minute or two, and 
then once more it began to climb until it had 
passed the sixty-notch again. 

“ We haven’t begun to go yet,” bawled little 
Mike, grinning. “ I’m just getting the old girl 
warmed up a bit.” 

“You don’t mean that we’ll go much faster? ” 
asked the boy anxiously. 

“ We’ve got to,” returned Mike. “ Ain’t we 
running under orders to make Parkstown by one 
o’clock? We’ve got to make her hum between 
here and Albany, sure. Ask Harvey.” 


THE FLIGHT OF THE SPECIAL 253 


But Harvey had no time to answer questions, 
even if he had heard them. Nor was there need 
to answer. Number 408 was going at a pace that 
proved Murphy’s assertion. The quivering finger 
was crowding steadily forward. It was at sixty- 
five now, sixty-six, sixty-seven. Still it went 
on. Donald watched it with growing awe. The 
spell of the thing was on him now, and his 
alarm had subsided. The faster they went, the 
better. If Number 408 could take the risk, so 
could he. It was worth the risk, this wonder-trip 
was. 

Sixty-eight, sixty -nine, seventy. The fireman 
grinned as he opened the furnace door once more. 
He was toiling like a man in desperate straits for 
his life, but little Mike could grin no matter how 
much coal he was shoveling, provided Number 
408 was showing results. He was stripped down 
to his undershirt and trousers, and he was as wet 
as if he had just come out of the river, but he 
kept grinning. 

“ Watch her now! ” he said, panting and point- 
ing at the dial. “ Watch her! ” 

The finger stood at seventy-five. At seventy- 
five miles an hour the Record special was plun- 
ging toward the scene of the story, and Donald 


254 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


knew that Ordway, back in the coach, was exult- 
ing. But Murphy had said that they were just 
beginning to go, and he seemed to have spoken 
the truth. The finger was beyond the eighty 
mark and was moving along steadily when once 
more the flare from the furnace eclipsed the dial. 
Then, when the cab was dark again, the indicator 
was faltering close to ninety. 

In another moment, Burnes reached for the 
whistle-valve and held it down for ten seconds 
in a long, deep-toned note of danger. The wheels 
felt the grinding of the brakes, and every bolt in 
Number 408 seemed to be loosening. Then, 
ahead of them, a red light shone from a sema- 
phore, and they stopped and stood panting at a 
station platform. 

“ Orders/’ said Murphy, as he reached down to 
take a slip of yellow paper that was handed up 
to him. Burnes took it from him and held it to 
the light hurriedly. Then he reached for the 
throttle as the signal came to go ahead. 

At that moment, however, a boy’s lank figure 
swung itself upon the steps of the engine, and, 
with imminent risk of falling back under the 
wheels, gained the cab. Murphy faced the in- 
truder belligerently. 


THE FLIGHT OF THE SPECIAL 255 


“ Who are you? What’re you doin’ here? ” he 
demanded. 

“ I b’long to the Record,” said the youth, twirl- 
ing his thumb in the direction of the coach. There 
was a haughty assurance about him, as if belong- 
ing to the Record was an open sesame to anything 
whatever. Where, Donald wondered, was Felix? 
He had never seen this boy, but he was sure that 
here was his successor on the copy-bench. Nor 
was he proud of him. 

“ You can’t ride here, if you belong to a dozen 
Records,” said Murphy. “ You’ve got no business 
here.” 

“ Why not? ” insisted the boy. “ I ain’t goin’ 
to hurt your engine, am I? I b’long to the Rec- 
ord — ” 

The engine gave a lurch and the new copy-boy 
might have gone backward out of the cab if the 
fireman hadn’t caught him. Clinging to him with 
one hand, Murphy dragged him across the cab and 
spoke to Burnes. Number 408 stopped suddenly. 

“ Now get back where you belong! ” snapped 
the fireman, “ and get back quick, if you want to 
go ’long on the train. Hustle down there! ” 

He pointed to the ground, but the other hesi- 
tated. 


256 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


“ I b’long to the Record — ” he began, but 
Murphy seized him and helped him to alight. 

“ I b’long to the Record,” he kept saying. “ I 
— I’ll fix you for this. I b’long to the Record.” 

“Hustle up!” commanded Murphy, swinging 
out by the iron handle-bars to see when his victim 
was safely aboard the coach again. “ All right, 
Harvey, let her go.” Then, when Number 408 
shook itself again and commenced to eat up the 
track with fresh vengeance, the fireman turned 
to Donald, as he threw open the furnace door. 

“ A mighty fresh kid! ” he observed. “ Them 
newspaper kids is always fresh, ain’t they? ” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


IN THE FLOOD 



UMBER 408 swung around a curve and its 


1 headlight fell on a sheet of water, into 
which, down a sharp grade, the rails dipped and 
disappeared. Number 408 drew up cautiously 
and stopped on the edge of the lake. The monster 
sighed heavily, as if to remark that its flight was 
over, and rest at hand. Then it gave further 
vent to its feelings by letting off steam with a 
terrific noise. 

Burnes lighted a torch and descended to the 
ground. Murphy swung himself out on the other 
side, and the two went around in front. 

44 We can’t go through that ocean,” Donald 
heard the engineer say. 44 If we had a scow under 
us, instead of wheels, we might make it.” 

4 4 She looks to be three or four feet deep at the 
bridge,” returned the fireman. 44 Them Record 
chaps’ll have to swim.” 

Then, by the light of Burnes’ torch, Donald 
saw little Mike grin. 


258 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


The Record chaps were already coming forward. 
From his dark perch overhead Donald watched 
them, and drew back somewhat. His aversion 
had grown during the trip; he had no wish to 
face them now. It was Ordway who spoke. 

“ How far is it to Parkstown? ” he asked. 

The familiar, kindly voice was anxious now. 
Burnes turned, and Donald saw Ordway’s face 
in the ruddy glow. 

“ Two miles — if there’s any Parkstown left,” 
the engineer told him. Number 408 had disposed 
of its surplus steam and was merely panting. 

“Two miles!” Ordway repeated regretfully. 
“ A minute and a half would have taken us there, 
at the rate we traveled into Albany. Fellows,” 
he added, turning to the Record men who were 
grouped around him, “ we’ve got to go on, even 
if we have to build a raft. It’s one o’clock; we’ve 
got no time to fool around here.” 

He held his watch in his hand, snapping its 
case nervously. Then he turned back to the 
engineer. 

“ How is it,” he asked, “ that the track is flooded 
here, when the station at Parkstown isn’t? The 
operator there reported the depot safe and the 
wires working all right.” 


IN THE FLOOD 


259 


“ There’s a deep sag between here and the 
station,” said Burnes. “ On the other side of the 
river the grade is pretty stiff. We go into Parks- 
town on a side-hill; the town lies in the valley. 
It must be a wet town to-night.” 

Ordway snapped his watch with a final click 
and dropped it into his pocket. 

“ Wet or dry,” he said, “ we’ve got to get there. 
Is there any chance for a dash through the water? 
Could you get the special through on a pinch? ” 

Burnes shook his head. “ The water would 
put out our fire,” he said; “ besides, there might 
be a washout, or the bridge itself might be 
gone.” 

Then he turned and elevated his torch high 
above his head, as he pointed to a dim line of tree- 
tops that reached away into the darkness. 

“ That ridge,” he said, “ circles the valley and 
comes around into Parkstown just beyond the 
depot. It’s about four miles that way, I reckon, 
and if you get across the river at the county bridge, 
a mile below here, you could make the town easy. 
If you can’t get across the bridge, the only way 
I know of to make Parkstown to-night would be 
to navigate there.” 

“ We’d navigate quick enough, if we had a boat 


260 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


to navigate,” spoke up Higgins crankily. 44 It’s 
easy enough to talk about boats.” 

44 When I was a boy,” said the engineer, turn- 
ing to the engine and holding his torch among its 
bearings, 44 1 could ride a log as well as I can ride 
a locomotive to-day. Maybe you’ll run across a 
chicken-coop, or a kitchen table, and paddle over 
on that. If I had to get to Parkstown, I reckon 
I’d get there, but it wouldn’t be quite so easy for 
Four hundred and eight as for me. The old girl 
ain’t learned to swim, you know.” 

Or d way turned impatiently. 

44 Fellows,” he said, 44 we’ll take the ridge route. 
We can’t wade through these two miles of water, 
and perhaps get in over our necks; if we ever got 
to Parkstown, it wouldn’t be in time for the last 
edition. And we can’t waste time hunting around 
for a chicken-coop to ride into town on. If the 
county bridge is passable, we can foot it to town 
in forty minutes. If it isn’t, we’ll throw a raft 
together, somehow.” 

44 If the bridge is all right,” said Allport, 44 I’ll 
guarantee to make the station in thirty-five 
minutes. It’ll be going some, but — Well, we’ve 
got to go, haven’t we? ” 

He took off his coat and tossed it to the new 


IN THE FLOOD 


261 


copy-boy. “ Chuck it into the car,” he said. 
“ Here — take my collar along with it.” 

“ And take my duds along, too,” said Rumsey, 
stripping to his shirt, and stuffing his copy-paper 
and pencils into his hip pocket. 

“ And mine,” echoed Franklin. 

One by one, the Record men divested themselves 
of their surplus weight. The boy was loaded down 
as he climbed aboard the car. He reappeared a 
moment later, without coat or vest himself. 

“ You can stay here, if you want to,” said Ord- 
way. “ I don’t think we’ll need you to-night.” 

“ Not on y’r life! ” said the youth. “ I’m goin’, 
too, you can bet.” 

Or d way did not object. He borrowed a lantern 
from one of the train-men, got a few specific di- 
rections from Burnes, and climbed the fence. 

“ Come along, fellows,” he called; “ come 
along; we’re off.” 

He dropped out of sight into a thick wood that 
lay on the rising ground just beyond the railroad 
right-of-way. Allport followed him, then Frank- 
lin, then Rumsey — Higgins winding up the pro- 
cession. Higgins was fat and clumsy, and got his 
trouser leg caught on a splinter the very first 
thing, so that the new boy had to release him. 


262 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


Donald, still in the engine cab, heard him growling 
anathemas at the flood, and at his rescuer for 
being so slow. Politics was more in Higgins’ line, 
anyway, than special assignments out of town in 
the night. 

They had come through a thunder-storm on 
the trip, but now the clouds had cleared away and 
the stars were out. Serenely, they twinkled down 
upon the expanse of water that filled the river 
valley, winding away between the hills where 
ordinarily was only the silver thread of a peace- 
able stream. It was peaceable enough, even now, 
except down in the channel, where the torrent 
tumbled along somewhat angrily as if anxious to 
be free of restraint. The swish and swirl of the 
waters came up in a dull, monotonous rumble. 

Number 408 was quite at ease now, having got 
her breath after the mad race from New York. 
Her tired panting had ceased, and the lowering 
pressure of her steam made only a subdued mur- 
mur as she waited quietly for the will of her mas- 
ter, who, at the moment, was occupying a com- 
fortable chair in the baggage-car. Mike Murphy, 
being already black with the grime of the tender, 
was content to stretch himself on top of the 
water-tank and puff his pipe in silence. The rest 


IN THE FLOOD 


263 


of the train crew, with the exception of the flag- 
man who guarded the rear, was gathered about 
Harvey Burnes as he related the tale of the great 
flood at Johnstown many years previous, when 
he was firing out of Pittsburgh. It had cost three 
thousand lives, he told them, and this Parkstown 
disaster was quite likely to equal it. 

Donald was not one of his listeners. He had 
discarded little Mike’s regalia and was standing, 
at the moment, upon the pilot of the engine, 
shading his hands against the glare of the head- 
light as he peered out across the water at a black 
speck that was growing steadily larger. It was a 
boat, beyond question. He could now see the 
man at the oars, bending his body in rhythmic 
motions as unvarying as those of a machine. He 
was the only occupant of the craft, which, being 
small, made fast headway toward the shore. 

But now the boy perceived that the boat was 
not headed directly toward the stalled train, but 
was pointed slightly up-stream, so as to touch 
land perhaps a quarter of a mile beyond. As soon 
as Donald made certain of this, he jumped off the 
pilot, climbed the fence, and made his way, with 
all the speed possible in the starlight, along the 
rim of water that lapped a sloping cornfield. 


264 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


Keeping close watch, he saw the boat come nearer 
and nearer, until at last it grounded at the spot 
where he waited for it. The man leaped ashore, 
but stopped suddenly at sound of the boy’s voice. 

“ Can you tell me,” Donald asked, without 
preamble, “ whether the county bridge is still 
passable? ” 

“ Passable? ” The man’s answer was short 
and a bit sharp. “ Passable? If you could find 
it you might get astride one of the timbers and 
ride down to the Mohawk, but you’d need an 
airship to catch it. It’s been gone these four 
hours, the county bridge has. If there’s a bridge 
left between here and the canal, it’s a miracle.” 

“ Then,” said Donald quickly, “ how much will 
you take to row down there and take a party of 
newspaper men across? Unless they’ve found a 
boat, they’re stalled there at the place where the 
bridge was.” 

The boatman had been tying his craft to a tree, 
but he straightened suddenly. “ Don’t you 
know,” he asked, “ that the rapids are between 
us and the bridge road? ” 

“No,” said Donald, with a sudden sinking of 
heart, “ I didn’t know there were any rapids.” 

“ If you got into them to-night, you’d know it.” 


IN THE FLOOD 


265 


The man was emphatic. “ There’s no boat about 
Parkstown that could get through them. Besides, 
all our boats have better work on hand just now 
than ferrying newspaper men. With a thousand 
homeless families on the slope over there, do you 
think I’d go down to the bridge to get newspaper 
men? I’m after blankets and clothing, not re- 
porters. That’s my house up there on the hill.” 
He pointed to a dim structure that showed its 
roof among the trees. Then he suddenly seized 
Donald by the arm. 

“ Don’t touch that boat!” he cried savagely. 
“ If you lay a hand on it while I’m gone. I’ll shoot 
you dead on the spot! ” 

The man’s vehemence alarmed the boy as much 
as his words. “ I had no intention of touching 
it,” he said. “ I’m not a thief.” 

The man released him. “ I didn’t mean to be 
rough,” he said, bending over to look in the boy’s 
face. “ You don’t look like a thief, I’ll admit, but 
to-night Parkstown hasn’t any law — except the 
law we make on the spot. Our people have been 
drowned and crushed and swept away like rats. 
At supper time there was a lake up among those 
hills.” He straightened and pointed across the 
expanse of water. “ Now,” he went on, “ the lake 


266 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


is down here. It is no time to quibble. There are 
ghouls and despoilers abroad. Do you under- 
stand? ” 

“ Yes.” The boy did understand very well, 
for a pistol glistened in the hands of the other and 
made his mood and the situation quite clear. 
“ Yes,” he repeated. 

“ Very well.” The boatman put the weapon 
in his pocket and moved away up the hill. “ I’m 
going after all the blankets and clothes my own 
folks can spare. When I come back you can get 
in and ride over to Parkstown, if you want to. 
But the boat — don’t put your hands on the boat 
while I’m gone! ” 


CHAPTER XXV 


FOR THE LAST EDITION 


T half-past two, Donald sat in the little 



■*“ telegraph room at the Parkstown station, 
writing the story of the disaster. For half an 
hour he had been writing, writing, writing, his 
fingers flying faster and faster as the minutes 
followed each other and the dead-line grew 
nearer and nearer. At first, when the project 
had flashed across his brain, it had seemed quite 
an impossible thing to do. It had seemed a thing 
utterly beyond his capacity — absurd, visionary. 
It was a feat for an Ordway, not for an obscure 
railroad clerk who was no longer even a copy-boy. 
Why should he attempt it? he asked himself. 
Not only was he incompetent to accomplish it, 
but he was an outcast from the Record. He 
had come on the special as an intruder; he had 
hid himself in shame. Why, then, should he show 
himself now? 

His only excuse was the newspaper instinct 


268 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


that had grown up within him — the same in- 
stinct that had brought him, despite himself, on 
the special. A voice within him kept urging and 
urging. “ Write! ” it said; “ write, write, write! ” 
And he wrote. 

The only copy-paper he had was a bunch of 
telegraph blanks; the only pencil a blunt stub an 
inch or two long. The flood had left the station 
in darkness, except for two or three tallow can- 
dles, and one of these he shared with the operator. 
He had but a few inches on the edge of the table, 
but it did not matter; he wrote. 

He had started out with a faint heart and heavy 
misgivings. This was different from writing 
imaginary stories back in the Record office, with 
the whole night ahead of him and nothing worse 
at the end than Ord way’s kindly criticisms. 
Then, he had studied each sentence as a thing by 
itself ; he had weighed every word and placed every 
comma with deliberate forethought. That was 
child’s play; this was his first taste of work. When 
he set down a word, it was done with. As each 
sentence was finished, it was gone. There was 
no chance to look back and revise. There was 
no time even to sharpen his pencil, for the great 
story that was weighing upon his young shoulders 


FOR THE LAST EDITION 


269 


would not let him stop for an instant. “ Write! ” 
the voice commanded. “ Write faster, faster, 
faster! ” So faster and faster he wrote. 

Nobody knew where Ordway and the rest of 
the Record men were. The raging torrent below 
had balked them; that much was evident. Not 
a newspaper man from New York had come. The 
specials were lined up on the other side of the 
flood, the operator told him. Some of the fellows 
would surely be getting over before long — get- 
ting over somehow or other. But the last edition, 
Donald knew, would not wait for them. The 
extra editions might, but not the great city edi- 
tion. The immutable laws of newspaper dom 
would lock up the forms and send them out to 
the stereotypers when the stroke of the bell 
announced the dead-line. At most, the limit 
would not be stretched many minutes, lest the 
whole complicated machinery of distribution be 
upset. 

But the dead-line had not yet come, and Donald 
was writing. His doubt and misgivings had van- 
ished and he knew he could do the thing. He had 
intended at first to send a short story — four or 
five hundred words. He had finished this and 
signed it: “ Kirk,” after the fashion he had seen 


270 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


followed so often. In an amazingly short time 
the wires flashed back the message: 

“Kirk, Parkstown: — Send all you can till 
Ordway gets there. Send it fast. 

“ Chapin.” 

Chapin, the operator told him, had been clamor- 
ing for Ordway. Now he stopped his uproar over 
the wire, and took what the mysterious Kirk sent 
him. Whether he guessed Kirk’s full identity, 
Donald could only surmise. He asked no ques- 
tions, but merely said “ faster.” 

So Donald wrote faster. He was embarked 
now on the full tide of the flood story. With an 
analysis that came to him almost instinctively, 
it separated itself in his mind into its logical 
sequences. Or d way’s training was bearing its 
fruit. With a quick glance at the clock, he had 
measured his time; then, mentally, he had meas- 
ured his story and divided it into its parts. Each 
part flowed from his fingers freely until it was 
finished. Then, without rest or visible break, he 
began the next part. He was amazed at the flow 
of words from his own pencil. In a night, he 
seemed to have developed masterful powers. 


FOR THE LAST EDITION 


271 


Not that his story was one such as Ordway 
would have written. He knew it was weak in 
spots, and often rough and disjointed. He knew 
well enough that it was no literary marvel. It 
was a boy’s story, but it told the facts. The copy- 
readers could do what they pleased with it. He 
had no doubt that it would come out in print 
vastly better. But, at least, it was the flood 
story — and the “ beat ” was the greatest in all 
New York’s history. 

The little depot was insufferably hot and stuffy, 
and, with the muggy atmosphere and the nervous 
tension, the boy was as wet as little Mike had been 
back on Number 408. To this, however, he was 
quite oblivious. The water fell from his face 
in splashes upon the yellow telegraph blanks, 
but he did not even brush them away. The can- 
dle burned down to the table itself and scorched 
the wood, but he did not heed the pungent smoke. 
His pencil now left only broad scrawls. It would 
not write any longer without sharpening, but to 
sharpen it now was scarcely worth while. It 
was 2:43. So he wrote “Kirk” in wavering 
letters and handed the last page to the operator. 
Many times in the years to come was he destined 
to write “ Kirk ” at the close of exciting tele- 


272 DONALD KIRK, THE COPY - BOY 


graph stories, for his career had really just opened 
on this eventful night. Future books, however, 
must tell of these adventures. 

But now Ordway was there at last. Drenched, 
fatigued, half drowned, he and his little party had 
come through the flood finally, their raft a wreck 
far down the river, but their spirits still eager for 
the task before them. True, they had missed the 
last edition, but there was still time for the extras. 
“ Come along, boys! ” he cried, as they crossed 
the station platform with shuffling steps. “ Come 
along; we’ve got to make the best of a bad situa- 
tion.” 

And then his eyes fell on his protege, and he 
stopped short in bewilderment. 

“ You? ” he cried. “ Don Kirk, is it you? ” 

Donald made a sorry spectacle as he rose from 
his chair. The grime of Number 408 had been 
washed by the perspiration into a hundred queer 
shapes, from his forehead to his chin. There was 
a heavy black smudge under one eye, and a broad 
mark across his nose. His collar was a mere rag 
around his neck, and his shirt clung to the skin 
like a wet bathing-suit. Ordway stood looking 
at him, as if still in doubt, and the new copy-boy — 


FOR THE LAST EDITION 


273 


more dead than alive — leaned back against the 
wall and gaped at him. 

For a moment, Donald could not find words. 
Then he spoke, as if it were all a matter of course. 

“ I caught the last edition, Mr. Ordway,” 
he said. 










r 











\ 










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The Henley Schoolboys' Series 


AN AMERICAN BOY 
AT HENLEY 


By FRANK E. CHANNON 
Illustrated by H. Burgess. Cloth. $1.50 

Frank E. Channon has done quite a brilliant thing 
in discovering a new setting for a schoolboy story. A 
capital story of a lad from the United States at a big 
English public school. — Springfield Republican. 

By the same author 

JACKSON AND HIS HENLEY FRIENDS 
Illustrated by H. Burgess. Cloth. $1.50 

Just enough adventure mixed in with the everyday 
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HENLEY’S AMERICAN CAPTAIN 
Illustrated by Wm. Kirkpatrick. $1.50 

The third volume in the popular series deals with 
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captain of the school, and in this position has some dif- 
ficult problems to solve. 


LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., Publishers 
34 Beacon Street, Boston 


“A rousing book for boys ” 


MARTIN HYDE 
THE DUKE’S MESSENGER 


By JOHN MASEFIELD 
16 illustrations by T. G. Dugdale. Cloth. $1.50 


A Monmouth story related in good Augustan English, 
suggestive of Defoe’s. — New York Times. 

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In adventure, plot, and mystery the story leaves nothing to 
be desired, and the background is historic. 

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We recommend it for its manliness, for its direct appeal. . . . 
It is far above the average. — Literary Digest , New York. 

All that a book of adventure should be. It strikes the note 
of sincerity firmly and is true to boyish ideals. — Boston Herald. 

Surprising things happen and there are many hairbreadth 
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The best historical romance in several years. The historical 
atmosphere is so faithful and vivid that reading the book is like 
living a day in old London or fleeing from Sedgemoor fight. 

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Since Robert Louis Stevenson, no one has done a greater 
service for young readers than Mr. Masefield. “ Martin Hyde” 
is the best boys’ book of adventure since “Treasure Island.” 
. . . Mr. Masefield has written here a book that will live ; it is 
not inferior to any serious novel of the year in genuine literary 
interest. — Chicago Evening Post. 


LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., Publishers 
34 Beacon Street, Boston 


Mrs. Smith's Latest Colonial Stories 


OLD DEERFIELD 
SERIES 

By MARY P. WELLS SMITH 


1. The Boy Captive of Old Deerfield 

2. The Boy Captive in Canada 

3. Boys of the Border 

4. Boys and Girls of Seventy-Seven 

Illustrated. Cloth. $1.25 each 

U NLIKE so many books written from the historical 
standpoint, her stories are lifelike and readable. . . . 
The everyday life of the times is pictured with the heroism 
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Mrs. Smith pictures realistically the hardships and self- 
denial endured by men and women whose bravery and 
patriotism never wavered in their efforts to found a nation. 
There is enough action in the story to hold the fancy of 
any boy, and enough history to make it informing. This 
series of books on Colonial history is of conspicuous excel- 
lence. — Brooklyn Daily Times. 

No better books for the young on Colonial history have 
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Young readers cannot fail to be impressed by Mrs. 
Smith’s realistic pictures of the hardships and self-denial 
endured by the patriotic women who contributed to the 
independence of their country. The book will hold interest 
as a story, while giving an insight into the history of the 
period. — Philadelphia Press. 


LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., Publishers 

34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON 


Young Captains of Industry Series 


FOR THE HORTON NAME 


By HOLLIS GODFREY 
Illustrated. Cloth. $1.25 

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Proves that romance and adventure may be found 
among test tubes and crucibles as well as in football 
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— Boston Transcript. 

By the same author 

JACK COLLERTON’S ENGINE 

Illustrated by H. Burgess. Cloth. $1.25 

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the present state of aviation. — St. Louis Globe-Democrat. 

By the same author 

DAVE MORRELL’S BATTERY 

Illustrated by Franklin T. Wood. $1.25 

The third volume in the “ Captains of Industry Series” 
is a capital story of the adventures and misadventures 
that befell the young inventor of a marvelous storage 
battery. 


LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., Publishers 
34 Beacon Street, Boston 


















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